


Let's Take the Long Way, We're Still Bound to Get There

by quaid_poppinjack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley still a demon, Developing Friendships, Families of Choice, Heavy Angst, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Lighthearted moments, Love Confessions, M/M, Mafia AU, Magician Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other Angels - Freeform, Other demons - Freeform, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Some Fluff, crowley on earth on his own (good omens), major character death but with a happy ending so keep that in mind if you're worried
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaid_poppinjack/pseuds/quaid_poppinjack
Summary: Crowley has the weight of Armageddon hanging over his head. How much more trouble could it be to shelter a human on the run from organized crime?~~~“Sit down, Anthony.”Crowley sat. He perched on the arm of the sofa, feet on the floor, with both legs reined in tight and his arms folded across his chest. The last time he'd taken up so little space he was coiled as a snake. In contrast, his emotions spread themselves wide like a two-bit tart.“Hold this.” Azi handed the flip-phone to Crowley, who took it with some confusion. “Keep me from the temptation.”A nervous snort escaped Crowley, and he ground out, “Yeah, 's me, a rockstar at helping others resist temptation.”“I'm not in search of an escape any longer. I'm done. They think I'm going to try and keep running.” Azi was looking toward Crowley. His expression appeared very serious. “I'm nearly 45, I cannot keep this up.”After considering and tossing out a hundred words, Crowley finally settled on, “Er.”“If you're amenable to me staying-”“Always,” Crowley cut him off, embarrassing himself with his brusqueness. “I mean.” His lips were irritatingly dry. “As long as you need, Azi.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 89





	1. Stern Reason is to Judgment Come

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Mafia!AU I wanted to write years ago. The outline and chunks of this fic predate the TV series. While I am writing it now with the series in mind, it is still very heavily influenced by the book rather than the series. 
> 
> I have tagged this MCD but it does have a happy ending! I debated on tagging it, but as I reader, I would have wanted it tagged so I could be in the right headspace to read it and so bob's your uncle.

\-------

“Well that went down like a lead balloon.”

Crowley picked himself off the straw-encrusted interior of the barn and shook out his left wing so it left a spray of feathers drift into the loose straw. A deep cut ached in the bend of his elbow from blocking a blade now sitting innocently on the ground. He’d nearly been discorportated this time, but he was able to take the Angel down in the end.

It would be some time before Heaven would send down another Angel in that one’s place to confront him. Crowley was looking forward to the break. It was never the same one, usually upstart, unfamiliar beings of the second and third sphere. They were rarely competition for Crowley. He'd been on Earth for nearly 6000 years and hadn't lost his corporation once. 

With a snap, he mended and cleansed his suit back to it’s original pristine condition and replaced the bent arm to his designer sunglasses. One more quick bit of magic to care for his hair and bind his injury, and he was ready to phase his wings away and walk back to where he'd abandoned his car on a rural road west of the village of Mountnessing.

Crowley was exhausted. This last adversary- Hariel was it? He was cunning. They’d been at each other’s throats from the moment he’d appeared at one of Crowley's worksites several months ago.

He made his way through someone's cottage garden, idly noting the poor choice of groundcover and shoddy bedding as he followed a path built of paver blocks until he finally caught sight of his beloved car. And this. This is why he'd been so uncharacteristically satisfied in discorporating Hariel. A gouge into the side of his poor Bentley, which seemed to glare balefully at him with its headlamps in accusation.

“Oh baby, sweetie, I'm so sorry.” He slid his hand over the ugly, shredded gash and crumpled passenger door. “Did the bad Angel smash that awful dent into you? We'll fix that up.” He poured a miracle into the metal and circled around just to reassure himself everything was back to new before sliding in behind the wheel. Too bad he couldn't fix his own injury as easily. A slice from a heavenly weapon would fester but eventually heal. It still hurt. He pulled the Bentley out into the mild, rural traffic for the return drive to London and powered up his mobile.

“Dial the office,” he said while driving. He'd been out in bumfuck for weeks now to finish off Heaven's most recent agent, without a word to the staff of the company he owned. Good thing they were used to his eccentricity. 

After several rings, _“Anthony and Sons Elevated Landscaping, this is Newt, how may I assist you?”_

“Pulsifer! Nice to see the phonelines are still working.” He felt some of his tension slipping away. The business was meant as a tool to integrate with humans, picked up in the mid 1970s. He was loathe to admit how much he enjoyed it and the benefits procured from it's upscale reputation. 

_“Oh! Mr. Crowley! Hello! How, um, how are you? ”_

“Everything's peachy,” he said in a way he hoped sounded like a man returning from a breezy holiday rather than an inhuman fight to the (not-quite) death.

 _“We were wondering where you were,”_ Newt said. _“You said you'd let us know next time you were going abroad?”_

That was rather pointed for the usually meek Newton Pulsifer. Crowley was a little proud. “Things happen, Mr. Pulsifer. Nail down that Dowling account yet?” 

_“Er. Soon, I hope?”_

“I suggest you make 'soon' now.” Crowley ended the call with those words and flexed his arm with the injured elbow, hissing when the cut twinged painfully. That blessed Angel had taken up too much of his valuable time, and he had a ridiculous amount of work to finish. He switched on Sergei Rachmanioff's _Piano Concerto no 2 Bites the Dust_ and resigned himself to his drive back to London. 

~

It took the majority of two days to catch up on paperwork. Crowley groaned at the last updates and threw the cheap pen. He couldn't imagine doing this legitimately, but if his human staff handled the day-to-day, his landscaping company was a surprisingly easy way to slide into a variety of places for a temptation or two without putting forth much effort. Now if he could just as easily move past the staff without demonic intervention...

“Mr. Crowley!” 

“Oh, Mr. Crowley, a moment?” 

“Aaargh,” he grumbled halfway to the door. He set his teeth and turned the resulting strained smile onto his assistant and office manager, who had both popped up from their desks the moment he stepped from his personal office. “Well go on,” he said. The very paperwork-efficient but technology-deficient office manager, Mrs. Pulsifer, was Newt's mother and came with the purchase of this landscaping company. Newt was hired because Crowley was a damned sucker when it came down to it. Both thought him to be a young, eccentric billionaire, and he did nothing to sway that perception. 

Mrs. Pulsifer had a wad of files clutched to her chest (and an expression that would've served her well in Hell.) “Due to your _unexpected absence_ ,” she said in much disapproval, “I went ahead and hired a builder and a handful of horticulture operatives for the museum account.” 

“Yep.” Crowley couldn't be fussed over the actual minutia, but as he was pretending to be a human businessman, he tried to feign interest. 

“Ground maintenance over at St. James say they need an entirely new end loader for the hardscaping and a few apprentices.” She sounded hesitant, and he had no clue why. He always threw money at whatever they needed. 

“So buy it.”

“But you haven't looked at the figures?” 

“Buy it,” he hissed. “Money isn't an issue. Anything else?”

“Oh. Well then,” she said, sounding appeased. “The last owner...” 

“Was a complete idiot and ran the value of this place into the dirt.”

Newt was watching their conversation with trepidation and dared to step in. “I set up an appointment for the Dowling estate? For next week? Er. Should I handle that?” 

Crowley spread his arms in the air wide, his patience wire-thin. “Hasn't fallen apart without me here yet, has it?” he said, now completely exasperated. “Go on and drop it all on my desk. I'm going out for coffee.”

Mrs. Pulsifer's face went from perturbed to irritatingly knowing in a split second. “To the cafe down the street? You've been gone a few weeks. I bet he's been wondering where you are?” she teased.

His face now embarrassingly flushed, Crowley shook his head and wordlessly left the office. _He_ was a human. And Crowley sorely wished he knew why he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off said human.

He made his way to the cafe along the row, ignoring other pedestrians, and hoped he would see the human he was reluctantly fascinated with. Months ago, Crowley had glued valuable coins to the pavement and watched in amusement as person after person bent down to unsuccessfully retrieve them. He'd enjoyed the hit of frustration it caused. But not this human. 

No, his oddball little human, looking as if he'd just stepped off the set of a period film set, intrigued him. 

The man had watched as a frazzled woman pushing a pram with wailing infant unsuccessfully tried to pick up the coin. He'd scuffed his foot over the pavement before bending down to fail as well. 

Then, much to Crowley's surprise, the human had laughed, shaken his head, and then in a conversation Crowley was too distant to hear, wiggled his fingers and pulled a coin from behind the woman's ear to drop into her hand. She'd begun smiling and laughing as well before patting him on the arm and moving on. 

“What the...” Crowley remembered saying. The sight of his wile little inconvenience being thwarted should have upset him. Instead, Crowley crossed the street to tail the unusual human. He was perhaps middle aged, with a startlingly platinum head-full of unruly curls, not quite heavyset but a bit on the stocky side. And clearly well liked, Crowley noticed, as he followed him into a nearby cafe and watched as the man greeted both staff and patrons alike. Crowley played on his phone, affecting the image of bored corporate type on coffee break, and listened in on their conversation. 

Azi. That's what the employee had called him. First? Last? Crowley didn't particularly care; it gave him something more than 'curious' human to go on. 

Now, nearly half a year later, Crowley found himself scanning crowds for that dandelion fluff hair. Still found reasons to pick up coffee for himself and his staff, not because he was _nice_ , but because it gave him the very lame excuse to scout around that same cafe for him. Crowley was disgustingly obvious and devoured every crumb he learned. 

And.... there he was. Crowley took his time at a leisurely pace toward the counter and slanted his eyes toward a table tucked into a darker corner away from the front windows. Azi had a thick book in hand with pages gilded in gold (he always had a book, usually older and hard-covered). A plate bearing the remainders of what was likely a muffin was pushed to the edge of the table (Crowley might have noticed he _always_ had a bit of baked good on hand). His drink (possibly tea, or more often hot cocoa from the amount of times he'd overheard Azi's order) was served in one of the ceramic cups saved for regulars who meant to camp out for hours rather than require a disposable cup.

“Three hot dark roast, cream and sugar,” he said without turning to the woman behind the counter. He slid a credit card over and adjusted his sunglasses; he felt a little guilty playing at this aloof coolness to maintain his neighborhood reputation. 

However, he couldn't help the slightest trace of a smile when he caught Azi glance up, give him a quick once over, and duck back behind his book with pinkened cheeks and ears. Crowley knew he cut a deliberate, eye-catching figure intentionally, but it was gratifying. 

Gratifying, but the quick glances were also the totality of their interaction even after six months. And he shouldn't _want_ more unless he meant to tempt him. It was wrong, but it pleased Crowley to see this human continue to exist. When he grabbed the carrier to leave, he knew those eyes tracked his movement to the door and felt moronically giddy over it. 

~~

Things went on, as they ought for a demon who needed to catch up with the real work he'd put aside while clashing with the latest Heaven-sent adversary. He made a quick run out to the Chattering Order of St. Beryl's to make an appearance to the obnoxious satanic nuns Hell wanted under wing for whatever reason. He dabbled in some political demonic influence to secure all landscaping work for the newly appointed American ambassador, another spot Hell wanted Crowley's eyes on. He hoped someone would eventually clarify these frankly irritating assignments.

And of course, more paperwork for his landscaping business. Oodles of it, monotonous and dull. Once he sent Newt and Mrs. Pulsifer home for the day, he found a cruel satisfaction in burning the damn things into ash. 

He closed up and headed out onto the street to where he'd parked. It was dark and a little misty outside, and it was much later than he'd hoped to leave. Did he want to go straight to his flat, get blisteringly shitfaced and have a fabulous lie-in tomorrow? Perhaps out to a pub? He might have wrestled with it all longer if not for the sudden _Pop! Pop! Pop!_ of gunfire and shrieky squeal of rubber on pavement, all unheard of in his Mayfair neighborhood.

He swung around to look and dropped to a squat when more shots echoed and the large window pane to his office exploded into shattered glass. He scrambled across the ground, bobbling his sunglasses from their perch atop his nose along the way until he could swing open the driver's side of his Bentley. The noises were louder now, closer, now with the roaring of an engine and eerie tapping of people running on foot. Off in the distance, a figure had rounded the corner and was headed his way, a blur of white and gray and tan. 

Azi. That was Azi. Blooded and panting and running so fast his archaic Victorian topcoat flowed like a cape behind him.

Without thinking about it, Crowley swung open his door and shouted, “Need to get out of here?” He swiped his limp hair from his face and met the human's eyes. “Azi?” he tried, in hopes the man would recognize him from their shared glances. 

The man slowed his labored run and glanced back over his shoulder. His head swung back to Crowley, then back over his shoulder at the now three men who'd rounded the corner. He nodded, still struggling for breath so hard he looked ready to drop. “Yes. Please!” he gasped out. 

Crowley waved him in, not a moment too soon as gunfire picked up. The men barreled onward, toward them, still shooting, and Crowley tried to jam their guns with a thought.

“Fuck! Hang on!” Crowley growled and started the car. 

He slammed on the gas at the same moment Azi threw himself in the backseat, but not before one shot clipped his rear window, leaving him only moments to ricochet the bullet away from himself or Azi with a quick demonic miracle. 

The human struggled to sit up in the back seat, sucking in air desperately. His fingers clutched the front bench like a lifeline. “I'm sorry! They'll follow you,” he panted out. “just get me to my flat in Soho and leave me or you won't be safe!” 

“Yeah, fuck that,” Crowley spit. He glanced back, his thin smile quickly morphing into a wicked smirk. “We'll lose them.”

He made another tight turn, feeling the adrenaline hit. It tumbled Azi across the backseat. This was different than his desperate race from the Angel not long ago, though he patted the steering wheel and whispered an apology to the Bentley for throwing her into this so soon. 

“Oh good gracious!” Azi gasped from the back and gripped the seats tighter. “You weren't kidding, were you?” Crowley shot a look over his shoulder again to meet Azi's wide eyes (blue, they were blue, he hadn't been sure) and grinned over gritted teeth, feeling a sense of glee and proprietary interest. Blood smeared Azi's forehead to trickle upon his cheek, and his lower lip swelled puffy. One of the immaculate vintage suits he tended to wear hung sadly with buttons torn from the vest. It was peppered with splotches of blood and filth. 

“Almost already lost them,” Crowley assured. He focused back onto to the road and zig zagged streets while a foreboding sense of reality began creeping in. What in everloving Heaven was he doing? Saving a human he'd become a bit obsessed over? What was this guy caught up in anyway? 

“So,” he began, unsure of how to approach this. He made another sharp turn and was nearly sure they were in the clear. “What's with the entourage?” “Oh,” Azi said, fussing, “I'd rather not get you involved.”

Crowley eyed his shot-out window with disdain. He likely had the only classic Bentley in daily use in that entire area. “Consider me involved,” he tried not to snap.

“Ah.” The human gradually released his death grip on the front bench and slid into the backseat properly. “I'm going to have to leave my life here,” he said, now sounding disappointed. “I'm tired of moving. I really liked it here.” The last he said so silently Crowley assumed he wasn't meant to hear if he'd been human. There was definitely something going on.

He looked back again over his shoulder at the human. Azi was biting his swollen lip, his eyes nearly shimmering with unshed tears, and his fingers were clenched together tight with nerves. Crowley's gut twisted. “How 'bout I take you back to my place and you can get yourself all sorted out?”

He blinked and met Crowley's gaze. “That'd be. That'd be kind of you. But oh my, your eyes!”

Crowley jerked his head back to the road, his initial recoil at being called 'kind' overshadowed. Shit. His sunglasses. Before he could stammer anything out, Azi made an apologetic, flustered sound.

“Forgive me, I'm so sorry to comment on your condition. I don't know what came over me. My manners!”

Agh. Ridiculous human. “'S fine,” he muttered, now feeling awkward.

“No really,” he consoled and even went as far as to awkwardly pat Crowley on the shoulder before sliding back against the seat. “Here you are, rescuing me like some hero, and I go and point out a medical condition like a buffoon.” He sighed. “You must think me ungrateful.”

“I said it was fine, alright?” Crowley said, still stuck on 'hero' with an embarrassingly keen interest.

“You always have your sunglasses on,” Azi mused, then seemed to catch himself, because he quickly amended, “Not that I look at you. I mean, see you often enough to notice, or... uh..stare...” he trailed off and went quiet.

Crowley preened, but he popped open his glovebox to retrieve another pair of sunglasses. He pulled into a an open space near his building and hopped out of the Bentley to check for damage. “Can't fix you right now,” he said quietly as he eyeballed the bullet-hole damage and several dents where bullets must have struck. “Forgive me, baby.” He straightened up only to see Azi watching him from the sidewalk with a bemused expression.

“You must really love your car.” He stepped forward and placed one hand flat on roof. “Thank you,” he said right to the Bentley, “You've got a bit of oomph in you for a vintage!”

“Had it forever,” Crowley said, trying very hard not to be charmed by Azi making friends with his baby. “It's lasted longer than just about everything else of mine. Ol' girl's been through a lot with me,” he added and inspected the entire driver's side fondly before returning his attention to the human.

Azi was looking away, eyes following the side of his building upward. “I'm sorry you got involved with this.”

“Nah,” Crowley soothed. “Let's go in.” He led the way toward the front entrance.

Azi's shorter strides forced him to jog to catch up. “But your car,” he said. “And to be fair, this is not how I pictured our first conversation going.”

Crowley peeked at him over the rim of his sunglasses, amused. “You imagined our first conversation though, did ya?” he smiled, aiming for something a little flirtatious but tamed down due to the situation. Inside though, he flailed.

“I did. Um. Anthony?” he guessed. “I might have asked around. They said you owned the landscaping company a few doors down from the cafe.” Crowley turned to him as they waited near the lift just in time to catch Azi's eyes and the faint pink upon his cheeks.

“Anthony Crowley. Um. Junior,” he added as he remembered his 'father' was meant to have purchased the business originally.

“Raphael Azicis. Everyone just calls me Azi though.”

“You can call me Crowley,” he said, then paused. He usually stuck with Anthony for human acquaintances. Crowley was... well, it was just different, even though humans like his employees took it as more formal.

Azi didn't notice his internal distress and watched him with those beguiling eyes. “Is most this floor yours?” he asked in disbelief when they stepped off the lift into a long, darkened hallway.

“Yep.” Crowley nearly opened his door with a wave but remembered to be 'human' at the last second. He did miracle the key into his hands sight-unseen.

Azi followed him in and stopped when Crowley froze. Again. What was he doing? This was getting out of hand. He never brought anyone back to his flat, whether it be an acquaintance, a bit of fun, or another demon. He turned on the spot and met Azi's exhausted, pained but hopeful expression. Damn it all.

“Bathroom's down the hall, feel free to freshen up, and I'll make the sofa up for you if you'd like.”

“Thank you,” Azi said with noticeable relief coloring his voice and headed where Crowley pointed, looking back once over his shoulder. 

Crowley waited until the human was out of view and spun around with the heels of both hands slapped near his temples so his fingers stuck out like antlers. “What's going on in that thick head of yours? Idiot!” he cursed under his breath. “Think things through!” He quickly miracled the sofa to hold blankets and pillows, and after considering it, made the cushioning much more comfortable and threw in a set of cotton pajamas in what he guessed would be Azi's size if needed.

His eyes darted around his flat. Was it weird? Did it look weird to others? Inhumanly weird? It was...bare...mostly. A handful of memorable things he'd nicked over the years, a few opulent pieces of furniture. But it didn't look lived in. His landscaping office looked like a printing press had vomited over it. Was that 'lived in' or unusual due to Newt and his mother's shit hand with technology? “Think!” he grumbled. He headed over to the other side of the main living space. His plants, people had plants, right?

“That's quite a bathtub you've got!” Azi said in a normal speaking voice that startled Crowley anyhow. Azi had removed his coat and vest and rolled the sleeves to his shirt. Crowley had never seen him in such a state of undress.

“Uh, yep, only the best. Sometimes I get really dirty,” he said, then went wide-eyed at how it sounded. “Because of my job, you see, I go on site, I get involved,” he hoped he would shut up.

Azi quirked a peculiar half-smile. “Well it's very interesting. And thank you,” he added, now looking at the sofa. “I appreciate it and will be out of your hair tomorrow.”

“No hurry,” Crowley said. He made himself settle into an armchair that hadn't existed ten minutes ago. Azi gingerly sat upon the made-up sofa. Crowley wanted to heal the dark-clotted cut across Azi's forehead and lip. They sat in a great seething awkwardness for a few moments before Crowley blurted, "Tea?"

"I couldn't trouble you more than I have," Azi said. 

Crowley only nodded. His eyes darted around his flat while he thought of what to say ( _someone was in his space, he brought someone into his space! Ack!_ , his brain panicked.) “Is there anything you can share with me about your situation?” He held a palm up flat in a 'stop' motion when Azi made to speak. “I completely understand secrets, so if you don't want to say anything, I'll drop it now and let you rest.”

Azi tilted his head and made busy with pulling one of the blankets across his lap, glancing across at Crowley as he wiggled around until he looked more comfortable. “Plausible deniability. Though they probably wouldn't care,” he murmured. He looked over at Crowley with a soft, sad smile. “I'm sorry. I never wanted anyone involved. It's why I keep to myself.”

“It's fine,” Crowley said in a fumbling attempt at comfort. “I have some experience in getting out of trouble.”

Azi made a show of eyeing his flawless Dolce & Gabbana. “Really,” Azi drawled with more than enough disbelief coloring his voice to make Crowley laugh.

“I do!”

“Upstanding businessman like yourself?” Azi said, his expression gradually sliding into something teasing and more at ease. Oh, this was delightful. Azi was more than he'd ever imagined. Crowley sprawled further into his armchair, finally able to relax some.

“I'll have you know I was a troublemaker in my younger days,” he replied and tipped his head back into the cushioning. Little did Azi know _how long ago_ his 'younger days' were, no matter what age his corporation might appear.

Azi's face sobered up. “My younger days are what's caught up with me, unfortunately. I was involved in some family business, couldn't handle it any longer, and secretly worked with Interpol to get most of them arrested.” He shook his head and closed his eyes so his eyelashes brushed his cheeks. “Some want me back and some- well, let's just say, they know who talked, and they'll never forgive me.”

Crowley leaned forward. “You'll be safe here," he reassured.

Azi just nodded. He curled up on the sofa beneath the blankets and sighed in a way that sounded more dejected than he had all evening. “I won't be able to go back to grab my belongings. And I have a connection I can look up that will help out. I'll need to find him.”

Crowley hopped to his feet and thought while he circled the couch Azi was now dozing off onto. “How about you come into the Mayfair office with me, stick to the back, and I'll run over and pick up your stuff? And then you can make a decision.”

“Again, thank you, Crowley. You're a kind young man.”

Crowley bit down on his lip and suddenly wanted to be anywhere else. He stalked down the hallway, then turned, wondering if he should've asked Azi if there was anything else he needed. His steps faltered when he heard the low, mumbled sounds of Azi speaking to someone. Crowley quietly lingered the doorway, wary.

Azi was on his knees near the side of the sofa, head bowed, hands folded in prayer. “...and thank you for the dog who barked when there was absolutely no reason, because otherwise, I wouldn't have seen them at that last intersection. And God, thank you for putting Anthony Crowley into my path, I ask you to bless him for his kindness. I think that's everything. Amen.” He crossed himself and then climbed back beneath the blankets on the couch.

Crowley retreated swiftly to his room, his entire body a swirling, acidic blend of nerves and hope and confusion. He flung himself onto his bed before screaming into his pillow.

~~

“Oh dear, I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm so sorry,” Azi moaned as they stood near the shattered windowpane of Crowley's business.

Crowley had struggled to sleep and finally woke Azi early in order to grab breakfast and make it into the office before his staff arrived. He'd forgotten one of the bullets had hit the window.

“You didn't shoot it,” Crowley said. Some of the neighbors had secured some damage as well, and Crowley made a mental note to make sure Mrs. Pulsifer handled any police interaction. In an upscale area such as this, they'd be certain to take care of it quickly.

“But it's like that because of me.” Azi set his lips in a firm line and folded his hands in front of him. “It's practically necessary for me to repay you in some way.”

Crowley carefully picked across crunching glass, thanking his foresight for wearing his snakeskin boots today rather than his softer soled shoes. “I still wanna go get your things, you know,” he said, “You can give my office manager a hand while I'm gone.” He was happy Azi failed to protest this as he had the entire drive there.

“This is... yes, a little disorganized, I see, yes.” Azi sounded nonplussed.

In an attempt to see things from an outsider's perspective, Crowley allowed Azi to take several steps ahead. The main space was mostly taken up by two desks that were swallowed by file folders, loose pages, and handwritten spread sheets. More folders were stacked on the floor, and a wall of shelving held books on topics such as gardening, soft and hard landscaping design, and plant pathology. Beyond his open office door, the disarray continued. Any remaining open, flat surface held vibrant, healthy houseplants, and some even hung from the ceiling with vines trailing downward.

He couldn't exactly explain that most of this was for show while the details were handled by miracle. And that he didn't _want_ new clients wandering off the street. In fact, the lobby was meant to be off-putting as most his clients were selected by how they might prove useful.

“Mmmm. My office manager's been here forever, and her son's helping out as my assistant while he looks for something else. They both have an...issue with technology.” He waved a hand around. “She knows what's going on.”

Azi grimaced and nodded hesitantly. “Where might I help, then?”

“Come 'ere.” Crowley led him into his personal office, back to where he'd prefer Mrs. Pulsifer and Newt stay away. Though there were no windows, shade tolerant indoor plants lined this room as well. His desk was small. Most the space was taken up by a large drafting table set beneath an enormous corkboard and wall of storage for blueprints. This time, he couldn't stuff down the vain surge of pride.

“What is all this?” Azi said.

“I design it all myself,” Crowley could not resist boasting. These are all my blueprints.”

And wouldn't Hell have a field day with this information, Crowley thought, the serpent recreating the Garden over and over. “I have a lot of celebrity clients, 'S why I have the main office in Mayfair,” he explained. “Nearly every private garden in this area, mine. Renovations for Chiswick House Gardens, mine.” Azi didn't need to know Crowley'd actually been with Lord Burlington and William Kent when they'd designed it in the first place. And maybe he wasn't spending hours bent over bluesheets or a program and rather miracled the design onto the page, it was still his plan, his imagination.

Azi brushed his fingers over a current work-in-progress for a local socialite Crowley happened to also be tempting into something that would reverberate through all her Instagram followers. “Crowley, this is amazing!” he said. “You're good at this.”

Crowley realized belatedly how showing off to impress Azi practically invited uncomfortable compliments. Before he could become too flustered though, he was saved by noises indicating the arrival of his small staff.

Crowley ducked out of his office away from Azi's admiration to see Mrs. Pulsifer draping her coat on the back of her chair. Newt was looking blankly at the shattered glass.

“Mr. Crowley!” Mrs. Pulsifer called out. “What on earth happened in here?” She noticed Azi standing behind him and cocked a curious eyebrow.

“Rowdy neighbors,” Crowley said dryly. He'd purposely chosen this street due to it's upscale blandness and absolutely nothing ever happening.

Azi stepped around him and offered a handshake. “Raphael Azicis, I'm helping Crowley here for a bit.”

“Oh _are_ you,” Mrs. Pulsifer said, abruptly coy. Crowley need to cut that off immediately before she revealed how transparent he'd been over Azi.

“I have a few things I need to take care of this morning. See to it he gets those drawings put away?” he suggested. He turned to Azi, who was standing, hands clasped behind his back, wearing an anxious smile. Azi rocked from heel to toe in a nervous little tic.

“You're good then?” Crowley asked. He double checked the address on the paper Azi had given him earlier that morning.

“Right as rain!” Azi said.

Crowley jerked his head in a sharp nod, and as he made for the door, caught Newt's attention and said, “Get that glass up. We'll figure out the window later.”

~~~

Azi had a tiny flat atop a small grocer in Soho side by side with what seemed like mostly singles and young couples. Crowley parked where he wanted and found it easily. The air smelled of spicy, roasting meat and the building appeared older but not dilapidated. It was fairly quiet; Crowley had never actually been in this area during the early daytime. When he climbed the steep steps to Azi's story though, he could see Azi's door propped open. He looked around the doorway carefully. Trashed. It was like someone had come in and torn apart everything.

He dug out his mobile and dialed his office, still surveying the damage.

_“Anthony and-”_

“Newt!” Crowley snapped, interrupting. “Get Azi. Now.” He waited and picked shredded poly-fiber filling from the chair off the carpet.

 _“Crowley?”_ Azi asked, sounding worried.

Crowley kicked a shredded pillow out of the doorway to what looked like it might be the bedroom. “Someone got here already. You were smart to come with me last night.”

Azi just sighed over the line. _“I thought they might.”_

“What do you want me to do?”

_“Clothes, please. And anything you can find on that list.”_

“You sure?” Crowley looked around at the flat and at the very short list.

_“My dear boy, this isn't the first, and it won't be the last. They're looking for things I already submitted to Interpol, so they'll never find them.”_

“Well. Shit.”

_“Precisely.”_

“Listen. You can stay with me,” Crowley said abruptly before his brain could catch up with his mouth. “I have a spare bedroom,” (that he'd miracle into existence from a closet as soon as he got off the phone). He opened a wardrobe and began sending the clothes right out to the Bentley. “I just need to move some things to make it usable, and it'll be fine.”

Azi went silent, then said, _“Allow me think about it. Thank you.”_

“Tell them I'll be back soon,” Crowley said and disconnected. Gosh, he was just the most polite demon these days, wasn't he? And now he'd gone and invited him to stay longer. In a home where at any moment, Hell might pipe up right in the middle of the evening news. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses, shook his head at himself and went around collecting the rest of the list.

~~

When he made it back to the Mayfair office, glaziers were already replacing the large pane. Newt was rolling old design blueprints to slide into tubes for storage and handing them off to Azi.

Azi was chattering merrily with Mrs. Pulsifer as he worked. His apprehension from earlier appeared much more settled. Crowley stopped right past the doorway and watched Azi fuss with papers. There was a sweet smile on Azi's face while he shuffled folders into his arms. He was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and khakis Crowley had conveniently 'found' in the back of his closet. The very unique sight of Azi in casual wear, at ease in one of Crowley's spaces and on friendly terms with two humans Crowley might perhaps have a grudging affinity for made his gut clench and his throat feel thick.

He shook it off and affected coolness as he leisurely sauntered into the office and tipped his head at everyone in acknowledgment.

“Everything that I could find is in the Bentley,” he told Azi.

“It'll be a treat to have my clothes again. I do appreciate this,” he waved a hand at his current outfit, “But I feel quite under-dressed!”

“For cleaning?” Newt asked. He had on a polo and jeans himself.

“Raphael's been a great help,” Mrs. Pulsifer said from behind a teetering stack of invoices.

“I just wanted to lend a hand,” Azi demurred. Though his head was tilted downward, his eyes flicked over at Crowley with a bashful flutter of lashes before he turned to move back into Crowley's office.

“Er. Thanks,” Crowley said, relieved it came out normal. He followed Azi in and partially shut his door. “I couldn't find the watch you wanted.”

Azi's face dropped some, but he snorted a sad chuckle. “I should have guessed. It was a gift from my late mother.” He shook his head and tightened his arms around the pile of folders. “She actually saw a person in me, not a tool,” he said softly to keep it between themselves. “My father handed me his old switchblade and one of his favorite pistols. ”

Crowley didn't know what to say to that, but the sudden touch of wrath he experienced outright surprised him. He went back into the main lobby and leaned against a wall near his assistant's desk. “Any messages?” he asked in distraction.

“Mr. Crowley, Thaddeus Dowling would like to meet with you to finalize a plan,” Mrs. Pulsifer said as she flipped through notes. “They just found out they're expecting their first, and the embassy's given him funds to make the hardscaping at the residence child-friendly. Oh, and to add a small children's garden, how nice! And he didn't want to work with a 'middle man',” she added with distaste, clearly defensive of her son who'd gone out there the week prior.

Crowley stuck out his tongue and hoped at the last second it looked human.

“Should I let his staff know that's your answer,” Newt asked from where he now sat at his desk, sounding rather amused. He clearly wasn't a fan either, which for someone as easy-going as Newton Pulsifer said a lot.

“No, see what they've got Friday,” Crowley called back as he went into his office. Hell was insistent on this ambassador thing. Azi was still within and was setting the file folders onto one of the only open spots on Crowley's desk.

“I'll try to be out of your way by then,” he said.

Once he'd collapsed with a sigh into his desk chair, Crowley nudged his sliding sunglasses back from where they'd drifted and looked up at Azi, who appeared to be dithering by the drafting table.

“It's no hurry, I mean it,” he said. “I swung by the flat and fixed up the second room. I don't mind you staying there until you figure out what you need. It'll be safe.” He couldn't quite explain how he could keep his building off their radar, but he hoped it sounded convincing.

“I couldn't do that to you. We hardly know one another,” Azi said. His fingers were twisting in the hem of his t-shirt.

Crowley tried an encouraging smile. “You do a little,” he coaxed. “I'm kind of a prick, I'm a little vain and proud of even that.” He paused while Azi turned to study him more intently. “I have really weird eyes that I'm kinda hoping you keep to yourself,” he said much quieter.

“Crowley, your eyes are lovely. Surprising, but lovely.”

Crowley felt his cheeks burn and stared down hard at a bobblehead hulu dancer stuck to his desk. “You need glasses.”

~~

They finished the day out and swung by an Indian restaurant for take-out. Crowley had watched Azi ring up several people from a very old cheap flip phone and had nearly bitten his nails off to not ask on whom he'd called. Whatever it was about, Azi returned to his flat with him and moved his belongings into the spare room without much fanfare.

Crowley and Azi were now fairly relaxed and deep into a bottle of wine, their takeout cartons strewn across the coffee table (also newly miracled. Crowley was beginning to feel like he'd missed out on a lot of traditional human furnishing at this point). He was cautious to pace himself so as to appear human. He could normally polish off several bottles on his own.

Azi had a delightful glow about his person and was shuffling a deck of cards in his rather nicely manicured hands. Crowley was soused enough to allow himself to openly watch those fingers and let his mind wander.

“And is this your card,” Azi said, holding up a five of clubs with far too much flare.

“Nope.” Crowley took another swig of his drink and watched him fumble the deck. He knew he likely had an insipid smile on his face.

“Oh bother,” Azi grumbled. He really could shuffle with some charisma though and went back to that. “I'll nail that one soon enough. You should have seen my brother with three-card monte...” he said, then sucked in a deep breath at his words.

“You don't have to explain anything,” Crowley said.

“You deserve something.” He dealt out a card face-up to Crowley and one to himself face down. “Blackjack?” he asked as an aside.

Crowley nodded. He didn't particularly care for card games, but whatever would get Azi to open up a little.

Azi dealt a second card and looked at him with expectation.

“Hit me.”

Azi dealt a six that caused Crowley to bust. Stupid game, Crowley thought. Azi finished his own hand and had to hit. “Twenty,” he said. “Keep going?”

Crowley nodded and vaguely paid attention. He could _feel_ an aura of something from the human he'd normally grab onto for temptation and kept quiet so Azi would talk.

“So my family,” Azi finally said after several hands of blackjack. “They were into money laundering. Drugs. Gambling and lending. Some black market sales. Endangered animal parts.” Azi was focused on his cards but his eyes flicked to Crowley's several times.

“Oh?” Crowley said in what he intended to sound like mild curiosity.

“Mmmmhmmm. That's what I grew up with knowing. But it was worse.”

“In what way,” Crowley impulsively asked and then bit his lip because that seemed too eager.

“I helped,” Azi said with a wince. Crowley kept his face neutral in response. “I helped for a long time because, well, it was my family. But then.” He scooped the cards up from the pile before Crowley and then his own.

Azi's eyes went to a sculpture Crowley had in one corner of his sitting room. “I suspected they were hurting people, but I didn't know the scale. And when I was old enough, I was sent _with_ to guard the door while they hurt people,” he said softly. His blue eyes were shimmering but his voice didn't crack.

“That's awful,” Crowley said, pitching his voice just as soft as to not interrupt.

Azi's head turned back to him. “Oh it was awful. And worse, I realized they were trafficking _people_ on top of everything else.”

Crowley reared back and grit his teeth in a snarl.

“I'm really quite guilty,” Azi whispered. “I let a lot slide that I felt was morally wrong because I had a chance to handle ancient artifacts, manuscripts, art I would have never had access to otherwise. And they were my family, I didn't want to lose them!” he cried, voice ticking upward in a sort of despair. “But when I realized the extent they were hurting people and then _treating them like objects,_ , I was done.”

“That was brave of you,” Crowley consoled. He knew what it was like to not toe the party line when his own conscious spoke up. He was a _horseshit_ demon, but he'd never wanted to Fall anyway.

“Pathetic, rather.” Azi said with a disparaging tone lacing his words. “I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted me out of your life immediately. If I were brave, I wouldn't have waited so long to go to Interpol. And I wouldn't have done it in secret. Now I'm a burden and stuck.”

Crowley remained quiet and gathered up the takeout remnants to allow Azi to compose himself. “I don't mind you being stuck here,” he said while paying an unnecessary amount of attention to his clean up. He felt strangely vulnerable even though he hadn't been the one revealing anything. Something beneath his ribs ached. “As long as you need,” he said softly without looking at Azi.


	2. Arrayed In All Her Forms of Gloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see spoiler notes at the end of the chapter regarding archive tags

The next few days passed cautiously. Crowley and Azi would drive to the office, Azi would set to work on whatever project Mrs. Pulsifer had drummed up, and Crowley would split his time between legitimate business and tying up a handful of ongoing temptations. (He was particularly proud of his Instagram influencer socialite that'd convinced her two million followers it was good luck to adorn any door handle they used with chewed gum.) 

He took advantage of his time away to miracle his poor Bentley back into shape, hissing through his teeth at the damage all the while. “I'll make it up to you,” he said. “Out to the greenhouses, you're choice of speed, I promise.” 

Crowley tried his best to keep his questions in check over Azi's quiet phone calls. He was clearly arranging _something_. And while Crowley could easily snap Azi docile and draw the information from him, the thought of doing so made him queasy. Instead, he cast his senses outward, seeking sources of concentrated sin. There was just too much out there for it to be useful. Crowley cursed how successful he'd been and how natural it was for humans to indulge their vices with free will.

At one point, he stopped in the cafe ( _their_ cafe, Crowley thought) when Azi was mourning the loss of his daily mocha. “What happened to the odd duck in the bow tie who used to sit in that corner,” he asked casually once he'd paid.

The woman filling his order appeared stunned; he never spoke to the staff. She glanced at the empty table. “Oh, you must mean Mr. Azicis! He was one of our regulars until not long ago. Such a sweet guy!” As she handed Crowley his drinks, she added, “I hope he's doing well. A few men were in here asking about him the other day, and they didn't look too friendly. Nobody said a word to them,” she reassured. 

“Huh,” was all Crowley replied, his thoughts racing. They were definitely still looking for him. As he returned to his office, he argued with himself on how much effort he was willing to put forth. Crowley could use all the demonic miracles he wanted to disguise Raphael Azicis, but he couldn't just follow him around the rest of the human's life. 

Right?

~

That evening, he knocked on the door of the room he'd offered Azi and waited until he was beckoned in. He had a mug of steaming chamomile in one hand like a complete and utter sop. He couldn't stop _doing_ things for Azi. The bright and grateful expression on Azi's face at seeing his offer was the reason why. Azi was on the spare bed, still appearing high-strung, with some hardcover monstrosity of a book propped on his knees.

“You didn't have to make me tea!” Azi said. His cheeks went rosy, and Crowley felt his own flush. 

“Settles my nerves when I have trouble, thought it might for you,” was all he said. He set it on the nightstand and retreated to hesitantly sit at the edge of the bed. “How's your...,” he waved a hand at Azi's face to indicate his healing injuries. Crowley struggled with keeping himself from a miraculous nudge, but it did seem as though the cuts had scabbed over nicely.

“That was nothing,” he said. He smiled down at his tea and shook his head. “I've had much worse.” 

“Not reassssuring,” Crowley said, his words slipping into a low hiss on accident. 

Azi sipped at his tea again and raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “You're sort of trouble must be different than mine,” was all he replied. 

Crowley had his hands clenched in the duvet and studied the empty shelving and bare chest of drawers. Azi did not appear to be making himself welcome in Crowley's flat other than use of the bed, like he was ready to bolt at any moment. “The blue-haired girl at the cafe says they were in there looking.”

“Oh dear,” Azi said. He propped himself up to sitting on the mattress and took a careful sip of his tea. “That'll be Dorothy. Dottie, she says to call her. I miss them! Oh Crowley, this is really intolerable. I had to call and cancel book club too because that's a regular location for me. The wine tasting over at Vines on Saturday evenings, my nail appointment, trivia night put on by London Friend!” He took another sip of tea and peered at Crowley over the rim. “I guess it's just sinking in. I can't even just go for a walk and collect my thoughts without letting my guard down.”

Crowley hadn't really thought about how Azi's life was now forever changed. He'd seen him in short bursts sporadically, But Raphael Azicis had a human day-to-day life he went about, short as their mortal lives were, something comfortable he must be grieving. 

“Was there anyone else you'd need to talk to?” Like someone you were dating, Crowley didn't say aloud, but he could if he wanted. Because that's a thing he'd ask a person, just, you know, a casual inquiry like two humans interacting might, no stake in the answer, no big thing. 

“I've found it...less painful if I keep everyone at arm's length. When it could end any moment? It's why I'll be out of your hair soon. Why bother with anything if it's bound to just hurt,” Azi said with a choked, sad sort of laugh.

“Mmmm.” Crowley hummed in acknowledgement, lost in his own memories. “Yeah, I hear you there,” he said, voice soft. 

They both went silent. Crowley eventually bid him goodnight and made his way to his room while still feeling melancholy. 

He flicked on a radio to light classical and was just about to will himself into pajamas when his radio said, “CRAWLY! ABOUT TIME.”

Crowley was glad no one was there to see his startled jump. “Sorry, been busy! And I just sent in a report,” he said. 

“AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT AN INSTAGRAM IS, BUT YOU'VE GOT A LOT OF PEOPLE FEELING WRATH, SO EXCELLENT WORK.”

“So what's new?” he said as he tried to make himself comfortable in his bed, then thought over what he'd said to _freaking Satan_ and cringed. 

“ARMAGEDDON, THAT'S WHAT.”

“Yes, of course. Er. When?”

“THERE'S NOT AN EXACT TIMETABLE ON THESE THINGS CRAWLY, YOU KNOW THIS.”

“Right.”

“IT IS IMPERATIVE YOU MEET WITH TWO OF MY DUKES TOMORROW AT THE USUAL LOCATION. THEY HAVE IMPORTANT INSTRUCTIONS FOR YOU TO LAY GROUNDWORK FOR ARMAGEDDON.”

“Which you want me to do. Lay groundwork. For the end of the world.” He was now equally relieved no one could see him clutch his pillow to his chest. 

“YOU'RE THE EXPERT UP THERE, CRAWLY. WE'RE RELYING ON YOUR BRILLIANT PUPPETRY TO MAKE EVERYTHING READY FOR THE ANTICHRIST'S ARRIVAL.” 

“My...puppets,” he echoed. 

“YOU WON'T LET US DOWN. WILL YOU.”

“Nope. Get right on it. Have an awful day!” 

He was getting rather acquainted with the muffled sounds of screaming into his pillow. 

~

Newt and Azi were knee deep in the skeletal remains of a computer when Crowley returned to the landscape office the next day after a quick consult. The air smelled of burning plastic and ozone. He watched them wade through it's corpse for a few moments and cocked his head at Mrs. Pulsifer for an explanation. 

“I tried to tell Raphael,” Mrs. Pulsifer said, though she sounded justified. “He would not believe I meant nearly _every_ piece of modern technology.”

Crowley's lip twitched as he fought a smile. “You thought you'd, what, put together a spreadsheet for Newt? Show him how to use excel?” he asked Azi. 

“It's astounding! I was curious on why a fairly new desktop was just sitting there in a dusty corner when it was so sorely needed.” Azi said. He was looking at the computer remainders in wonder. “Are you sure it's not a curse?”

“I have no idea,” Newt said, dejected. His hands were tangled in wires and the motherboard sat in multiple pieces at his feet. “My gran told me some family history that might lead to thinking we were cursed.” 

Azi waved some wiring at Crowley. “Did you know when you hired...of course you would,” he corrected. “And you too, Mrs. Pulsifer, you destroy tech as soon as you fiddle with it?” 

Azi sounded both horrified and fascinated, something Crowley could commiserate with. He'd checked. There was no curse on the Pulsifers. They'd actually been _Blessed_ with this -ability-in yet another decision from the Almighty Crowley would never understand. 

“I like keeping track of it all by hand anyway,” Mrs. Pulsifer said. “Now if you ended up staying around, Raphael,” she hinted to Azi. 

“I'm sorry,” Azi said, the playfulness draining away. “I won't be here long enough for it. I'm actually waiting on a phone call.” His eyes were very obviously avoiding Crowley's.

His apprehension growing, Crowley wanted to crush the mobile phone and bundle Azi back into his office, away from shot-out windows and shady contacts and avenging families of organized crime. 

Newt accidentally kicked over the half the computer tower housing. It clattered noisy in the quiet. 

Crowley needed to meet a Duke of Hell late that afternoon, but he could perhaps fit in a client that would kill two birds with one stone. “Newt, leave that there and grab the stuff for the Dowling account. Azi, why don't you come with this time?” 

Azi pursed his lips and stole a look down at his pocket where he'd been carrying the archaic mobile. “I called in a favor. They said they'd get back to me today.” 

Crowley ignored how his stomach dropped some and waved both hands in the air as if brushing off a shelf. “'S fine. I thought you might be bored by now, 's all, but I'm sure Mrs. Pulsifer had plenty to do here while you wait.” His shoulders hitched tight to his ears involuntarily, and he turned to look at anything else in the office rather than one of the blessed humans he'd somehow saddled himself with. 

“On second thought,” Azi said as he gingerly stepped from the destroyed computer, “a change of scenery might be nice.” When he walked past Crowley, Azi paused, gently laid a hand on his forearm ( for an _eternity_ , trees grew from seed to towering above Crowley's head in this space) and slid it away to keep walking. 

“You three sods just don't want to be stuck cleaning this up!” Mrs. Pulsifer called out after them as they all headed to the car. 

~~

“I hope we're only meeting Mrs. Dowling,” Newt said from the backseat of Crowley's Bentley as they drove through a security check upon arrival to the Regent's Park area. “Mr. Dowling is very. American.” Crowley barely paid attention and drummed his fingers on his steering wheel impatiently. The grounds at Winfield House were impressively big, but with the amount of security an ambassador needed, Crowley would've washed his hands of it all over the fuss. Why Hell needed Crowley's eyes on it baffled him. 

They parked and were escorted by security to a dated but still pleasant courtyard featuring outdoor furniture and a very well dressed woman seated beneath a patio umbrella. 

“This is better,” Newt was saying to Azi under his breath. “Last time, we met inside and Mr. Dowling took about five calls while I was having him inspect the paperwork.” He said the last with a light grimace. 

Crowley wanted this over with, but he also wanted to give Azi some of the freedom he'd been missing. “What's the security here like,” was the first thing out of his mouth upon reaching the table. 

The woman appeared slightly taken aback. 

“Hello, thank you for meeting with us,” Azi said, stepping in front of Crowley with a hand outstretched to the woman while shooting Crowley a disappointed glance. Crowley grinned with all his teeth bared. 

“Hi, I'm Harriet Dowling, thank you so much for this,” she said, recovering very well. Crowley was faintly impressed but then realized he should've expected such if she indeed had been an ambassador and politician's partner for some time. 

“Security?” Crowley prompted again.

A man who'd been hovering indiscreetly in the back stepped forward. “Sir, there's no worries. Anywhere on site is under surveillance.”

“It's much too large, twelve acres! We have a resident gardener, but this is different situation,” Mrs. Dowling explained. She placed a palm over her still very flat belly. “I never thought I'd have a baby in England when Thad was first appointed here!” 

Azi and Newt had sappy smiles on their faces. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his shades and bit back a sigh. “Congratulations on the baby,” he forced out. 

“Thank you. I was told I wouldn't be able to get pregnant, then, surprise! Due date in seven months. It's such a miracle.” 

“Heh,” Crowley replied, hyper-focusing on the word 'miracle' while Azi and Newt echoed his congratulations. This was beginning to feel very suspicious to him. “One moment.”

He turned to Azi, who still had the ridiculous smile on his face. What a complete softy, Crowley thought as he watched as Azi's eyes sparkled in the midday sun. “Why don't you take a walk along the grounds, see what's out there?”

Azi turned to Crowley in confusion. “You asked me to accompany you so I could...wander off?” His forehead began scrunching up in befuddled lines that Crowley made sure to not think was appealing in any way, shape or form, not at all.

Crowley nodded, aware both Mrs. Dowling and Newt were watching. He realized he had stepped closer to Azi, perhaps slightly too close for work colleges, so he stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and looked at the grass. 

“Well. There's twelve _secure_ acres here, no need to watch your back. Can just look around at flowers and trees and stuff 'n relax and not worry about things. Newt can go with if you'd like.” 

“Oh there's a beautiful fountain if you go off East,” Mrs. Dowling pipped up. “That whole area is very pretty!” 

Azi's eyes widened as he caught on. His expression abruptly melted into a saccharine fondness Crowley could nearly sense on his tongue. “OH. Oh. Yes. Twelve acres, really? All secured. Thank you, Crowley. I'd love to.” 

His face was so... so stupidly human and his eyes so...whatever...Crowley just grunted back at him and made himself comfortable in the wicker chair across from Mrs. Dowling. 

“So Newton, shall we promenade?” Azi said with one arm outspread as if it were the 1800s or something and they were a set of companions prepping to take a turn about the garden. Newt jumped at the chance to be out of the way of the brass tacks of business talk. He scrambled after Azi like an ungainly fawn. 

“Alright,” Crowley said with one last look over his shoulder at Azi. He flipped open a showbook and clicked the rather exquisite pen he was exceedingly proud of owning. Mrs. Dowling was already paging though the designs. “Let's talk about designer rocks.”

~~

Crowley peeked at his watch and cut across traffic much to the dismayed cries of Azi and Newt. He was running late for his meeting, but it was worth it to see some relaxation of Azi's perpetually anxious expression and even some easing up of Newt's tightly reigned reactions. He skidded to a stop in a spot that appeared before his office front. Newt jumped out of the car as soon as he could with one hand slapped across his mouth. 

“I think he might be sick!” Azi accused Crowley.

“It'll toughen his stomach up.” Crowley kept the Bentley running and turned to Azi, unwilling to let any of his swirling thoughts spill from his lips.

“Crowley, this was a very nice idea. I hadn't realized how much I needed it, to just wander.” 

“That's... yeah, so don't worry about it.”

"No, truly.” He reached for Crowley's hand that was fidgeting at the dashboard and rested his own atop. “I'm waiting on an old friend of my family who's helped me before. He'll have all new identification papers for me and when he does,” he swallowed thickly and stared at him intently, “I'll be ready to go into hiding again. Maybe Sweden, Norway this time?” he said, his voice cracking some. 

Crowley's throat felt like razorblades. “And you trust this guy?” he asked roughly. 

“Maybe? Crowley, I think you know it's hard to trust anybody in this world.” 

Crowley peeled the fingers of his other hand one by one from their deathgrip on the steering wheel and slid his sunglassses off his face to reveal the yellow-gold of his serpent eyes. “I trust you,” he said softly. 

Azi's smile in return was somehow both beatific and sorrowful. “You shouldn't.” He squeezed Crowley's hand and with one last look, left the car and gently shut the door. 

~~

Anytime Crowley needed to meet face-to-face with a Duke of Hell, they always chose uncomfortable, dank grounds where the corruptness seemed to permeate everything he wore. This particular rendez-vous point was no exception, a sodden, wetland area on the edge of a cemetery. He sneered pointlessly at the muck on his shoes, still feeling a little sore from his earlier conversation with Azi. 

On his way here, he had a silly impulse to stop at an old pawnshop he frequented, and he'd picked up an authentically dated pocket watch and Albert T-bar chain to replace Azi's lost wrist watch from his mother. It sat in the inside breast pocket of his vest right now where it's weight settled against his chest. Although he hadn't even given it Azi yet, just the intention of doing so comforted him.

He caught sight of what looked like Hastur leaning against a tree when he rounded a mausoleum. He scanned the area and located Ligur pushing on a loose headstone. Just great. He tried to force himself into a calmer state; two Dukes of Hell were a little terrifying. 

“Hi,” he said and leaned casually against the mausoleum with his fingers hooked into the edge of his trouser pockets. Might as well let them take the lead, he figured. 

“Crowley,” Hastur greeted. Crowley was thrown off slightly; he usually got _Crawly_ from an agent of Hell. 

Ligur made his way closer and snarled at him. That seemed more on par. 

“Heard about your Instant Grandma thing,” Hastur said. “Everyone's talkin' about it.”

“That's Instagram, guys. Instagram. Quick temptation, gets good results. You guys should get with the times!” 

“Seems weak to only be sowing discord with the elderly,” Ligur grumbled. “Clergy's what gets you noticed.”

“It's not the elder- you know what, yes, it's Grinder for grandparents.” Crowley thumped his head back against the stone. The musty, earthy aroma of wet earth coated his tongue when he flicked it outward in frustration. “More importantly, why've I been running 'round like a hellhound chasing a slab of meat?” 

Hastur grinned with a mouthful of blackened, oozing teeth. “Think you're the slab of meat in this one, Crowley.” 

“The Antichrist has been conceived,” Ligur said. He sounded genuinely excited and wasn't that disturbing. 

Crowley thought of the Dowlings immediately. “Wait. Is that why you needed my eyes on the American ambassador?” He recalled with some disturbance the pleasant but mostly forgettable human woman he'd met earlier. Had he already been near the Spawn of Satan? 

Both Hastur and Ligur seemed happy to flaunt their knowledge of Lucifer's inner-circle. Crowley was just tired and wanted this over so he could get back to Azi and pinpoint the source of his increasing worry.

All at once, he slumped against the mausoleum wall like his strings were cut. “Listen. I have a lot of plates spinning right now-”

“This should be your only dishware, Crowley,” Hastur warned. Ligur only crossed his arms and stepped forward toward Crowley until he loomed over him.

Crowley sucked in a deep breath and dipped his head in a slow nod. He pushed a wane, placating sort of smile onto his face and held both hands up in a 'stay' motion. “Guys. Listen. I'm jumping out of a plane here without a parachute.” He cocked his head and grinned in a way he hoped read agreeable and revealed nothing more.

“He don't know?” Ligur asked Hastur. 

“Need to know,” Hastur said. “But I s'pose you can know now. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness is conceived and shall be delivered in Hell. He will be sent to the Chattering Order of St. Beryl in Tadfield, where the Satanic Sisterhood will work with us to please our master.”

“The nuns?” Crowley said. He'd been sent out there a few times and they were definitely sycophantic and aware of his demonic pedigree before his first visit. 

“The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness will be switched out with the son of the U.S. Ambassador. The superfluous infant will be disposed. “

Crowley bit down hard on his cheek to not utter a sound over _that_ horribleness. “How's the ambassador going to end up at Beryls?”

“My team is handling their arrival,” Hastur said, and holy shit, Crowley thought, Hastur actually seemed proud of them. What was this world coming to? _The End Times,_ a little voice in his head that sounded like a lost memory seemed to whisper.

Damn it all.

“So you need me to...” he drawled. He shot for 'casual disinterest' in hopes it would disguise the 'holy-fuck-panic' threatening to shake him apart right in the middle of this disgusting cemetery with Ligur two steps away, his chameleon staring him down. 

“Keep a hand in at Beryls. Keep an eye on the vessel for the human spawn so nothing happens to him until we are ready for his delivery.”

“Mrs. Harriet Dowling?” Crowley blurted. Hastur and Ligur both looked at him like he was nuts for acknowledging a human's name beyond their purpose. 

“Don't worry, she'll be free to tempt after the Antichrist comes of age and Armageddon is nigh, if she survives. Hell would be pleased to have her since we've already got her husband.” Ligur shockingly reached out and patted his arm in a weird, repulsive attempt at- Crowley had no clue- maybe commiseration? It was the complete opposite of how he'd felt when Azi had touched him earlier. Azi! He needed to get out of here. 

Crowley clapped his hands together and pushed away from the wall. It was twilight now and evening insects were beginning to make themselves known. “If that's all then, I'll be on my way. Wait, either of you involved with organized crime in this district?” 

“Why bother with that,” Ligur sneered. We've already got their souls, easy.”

“Sure, sure,” Crowley mumbled. It suddenly occurred to him Ligur's words would encompass Raphael Azicis soul. 

Hastur stopped Crowley with a look. “We'll be watching you, Crowley. Nothing about this plan can fail. You know what we do with demons who displease.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Crowley said, backing away. “Personally acquainted at one point.” He gave a sloppy salute and turned to leisurely walk back to his car, his slow, meandering pace at odds with the rapidly twisting snarl of thought in his mind. 

Armageddon. End of the road. Finito. In the beginning, he'd been all for it. Bring on the War. Stick it to Heaven, to those damned Angels who'd pop up sporadically to try and discorporate or even outright kill him. And Azi might go to Hell. Sure, there'd be collateral in humans and other life forms, but their lives were blips in the first place. And _Azi would go to Hell._

He opened the door to his Bentley and got in on autopilot. Thinking about the end of the world these days made him feel sick. Thinking about Azi's soul suffering for eternity in Hell made him feel shaky and desperately terrified. Maybe he could... _claim him_ in some way if Hell did indeed win the War? Horde his soul for his own? ( A sordid, demonic scrap of him roused in interest.) He tried to dislodge the disturbing thoughts out of his head and slipped his mobile from his pocket to check for messages. 

Three voice messages from the office. He got as far as halfway through the first one, time stamped nearly two hours ago. Newt's concerned voice saying, _“Not sure if you're out of your meeting yet, but Azi left to meet someone who'd rung him several hours ago and hasn't returned. We're getting just a little worried-”_

Crowley closed his messages out, started the car, and the Bentley squealed out of the spot and left rubber like a drag racer. 

~~

Crowley called the office. Crowley called Newt's home. Crowley even called his own landline in the off-chance Azi had gone back to his flat. 

Nothing.

He drove mindlessly, nearly ninety through the tightly packed streets, contemplating increasingly worse scenarios. He held tight to the steering wheel like he'd be blown from the Bentley if he loosened his grip. What could he do? What could he do? What a waste of space demon he was, he should be able to-

Wait, he thought. He was able to sense when humans were ripe for temptation, if they bordered on Lust or Wrath or Gluttony. What if he could channel that same energy into looking for Azi's spirit or life-force or whatever bunk humans used? He'd been around the man long enough to recognize it. He abruptly slammed the breaks so that the Bentley skid into a 180 turn to stop parallel to a tourist bus. He ignored the honking of other vehicles and angry shouts of other drivers to concentrate. 

Something yanked right at his occult core, urging him south. He latched onto it like a parasite and his Bentley peeled forward without him even consciously deciding. “Don't worry, we'll find 'em, love,” he consoled the car. Across the Thames, then east, his worry a screaming air raid siren. It was lightly drizzling out and dark now, not that this mattered to Crowley, but things lurked in the dark and damp besides demons. Azi was somewhere, almost certainly in some sort of trouble if Crowley correctly interpreted the pull now urging him at great speed to hook a roundabout that spit him back south, past a memorial garden in Southwark he'd consulted on in the past. 

He veered through streets, pushing away obstacles through demonic miracles, and as he cut across a Tesco lot, something pricked him in the chest like being pierced by a sharp needle, looping a stitch into his heart. He shot east again, following the thread and nailed the break to a hard stop not far from the Rotherhithe overground station. 

There were mixed residentials in this changing area, nothing new for Crowley, who'd been around long enough to know nothing ever stayed the same. He walked as brisk as he could manage through the neighborhood and obscured himself from others' attention. He paused, feeling a tightness in his limbs that felt primal, an alarmed snake, ready to strike, aware of danger. Azi, Azi, Azi seemed to echo in his head; he was sure he had the right of it as he pushed open the darkened door of an older row of terrace housing now split into far too many flats.

His tongue, gone serpent now, darted out into the surroundings; it reeked of malevolence but on the very edge, he was nearly sure he caught Azi's comforting coffee and cotton scent. He scaled a stairway and paused at the next storey. An imposing man stood halfway down a hall of numbered flats. Crowley summoned an air of nonchalance and eased his way down the hall. The moment the man slanted his eyes at him, Crowley snapped him into slumber. The man slowly collapsed to the ground with his hand in the middle of reaching for his gun. 

He made the weapon disappear too and wedged the door open silently to look. No one in the main living space of the tiny flat. Only the scantest of furnishings, but he could hear voices now, one both soft and measured, and one angry and speaking in blunt, gritty tones.

He crept on silent feet closer. 

“ ' _The Lord is my Shepard; I shall not want.'_ ” Crowley paused. That was Azi, he was sure of it. 

“What an idiot you are, lookin' for papers? Money talks, Francis,” a man with a thick, graveled voice was saying. “You ain't got much a Pa's money left, now, do ya?”

“ ' _He maketh me to lie down-'_ ,” and then a pained grunt. Definitely Azi, Crowley confirmed, and he peeked around the edge of the door jamb only to see Azi pushed against the wall of a sparsely furnished home office by a bear of a man two heads taller and with a good eight stones over Azi. The darkened room was a nightmare in chiaroscuro, illuminated only by the sallow light of an outside streetlamp filtering though smudged windows. 

Crowley took everything in with growing fear. Azi spit blood and saliva at the brute holding him and choked out, “ _'-In green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters.'_ ” 

Another man just as large stood near, arms folded across his chest so his designer suit strained across well-built shoulders. A third rail-thin, unassuming man with a pinched expression on his face sat perched atop a desk. 

“Listen to you, Francis,” The man pinning Azi snarled. “You think God's got time to hear the likes of us?” 

The thin man sneered over at Azi and looked to be enjoying his struggle entirely too much. “Eight years, Francis. Sure I owed ya one, but that's before I knew you squealed. You fucked everything up for everyone!”

Azi's face appeared harshly red in in one cheek as if he'd been slapped, and traces of blood lingered at the edge of one nostril. He seemed unharmed otherwise and had enough spark in him still to glare at the thin man even with his head pressed to the wall. “ ' _He restoreth my soul.'_ ” was all he said in response. 

The man restraining Azi grabbed his shoulder to pull him forward and slam him back against the wall. Crowley's fingernails bit into his palms as he watched him throw an arm back and swing a fist into Azi's stomach. Azi made a choked grunt and exhaled all his air in one excruciating sounding whoosh. “Where's the ledger, Francis?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, William,” Azi gasped out, his eyes narrowed and betraying the soreness he felt.“ ' _He leadeth me in the paths-'_ ,” he cried in pain from another punch to the gut, and still husked out, “ _'of righteousness,'_ “. 

Crowley became frantic. His limbs itched to do something, a desperate need to get Azi away from these men. There had to be something he could do without tipping his hand as a demon. He shoved his fingers into his hair and pulled, his eyes flicking from corner to corner and back to the three men. But he was a tempter, one who slunk in shadows, not a demon used to confronting anything but Angels. He didn't _hurt humans_. Hastur and Ligur might've pulled up a chair for this, but it only sickened him.

The one Azi called 'William' shoved him with his forearm pressed across Azi's sternum and gestured with his chin at the man in the sharp suit. He stepped over and peeled Azi's hand from where it scrabbled uselessly at the wall. 

The room held shelving units, could Crowley somehow pull one down on them? In a panic, he glanced back to where he'd left the man unconscious. Maybe he should just put the rest to sleep. But then he'd certainly have to say something to Azi. Without knowing the situation... 

“Nah,” William was saying when Crowley peered into the room again. “I don't believe you. Where's the ledger, little brother?” His grin was repulsive; this human was Azi's own blood? 

Azi's eyes were venomous. “ ' _Yea, though I walk through the valley-,'_ ” 

“This is bullshit,” the man in the suit growled, and to Crowley's horror, _wrenched_ Azi's finger until it snapped with a dull crack. 

“ _'-of the shadow of death,'_ ” Azi continued, breathless with pain, words hitching. 

“Don't make me do this, Francis,” William said as if he were explaining to a child. He sounded as if he was growing impatient and angrier; Crowley's time was running short. “You're doing to this to yourself. Where's Pa's ledger? I know it ain't turned in. I know somebody's got it. Somebody's takin' the rest of the organization apart with it. just tell me, and it'll all be over.”

Azi glared, silent, and the suit snapped a second finger. “The ledger, you fucking rat!” suit-man bellowed for the first time.

“ ' _I. Will. Fear. No. Evil._ ' “ Azi spit out each word, and much to Crowley's amazement, smiled recklessly with blood-streaked teeth and tilted his head up as much as he could with his brother's arm braced at his chest. 

Crowley wasn't about to wait around and see what more might happen. He looked frantically at what was available and made sure he was disguised before sending a lamp crashing to the ground with a gesture. He waited at the door until suit-man walked out to check.

“Don't see nothin'-” he began as he walked right past. Crowley wasted no time in snapping him off somewhere in the world the moment he was out of Azi and the others' eye-line. He slipped back to the shadows to assess the remaining two.

William was leaning right into Azi's face. “You know,” he snarled low, his arm now pressing at Azi's throat, “I didn't believe them at first. Not my little brother Francis.” He said the last with a mocking lilt and pushed into Azi's throat at each word. “You'd never sell your own family out, right? Right Jerome?” he called to the slimy guy still on the desk. 

“I didn't know 'till after came to me for papers the first time!” the thin guy, apparently Jerome, said with a false sounding disbelief. He narrowed his eyes at Azi. “You gotta lotta people in trouble. I did two years off that collar, did you even care, just swannin' around England like the little pansy you are?”

Azi swallowed and made a high pitched noise that dug into Crowley's chest. He needed to get these other two out and fast. Crowley bit down onto his lip. This is why a demon shouldn't get all tied up with humans, he scolded himself, shouldn't get all involved with people who aren't supposed to know (just do it and then tell him you're a demon, something whispered, Azi would understand). 

“William! We're family!” Azi cried wretchedly. His words were choked from the weight pressed against it. “And what we were doing was wrong! You thought so too once,” he added in what sounded like desperate appeal to a memory. 

William pressed his free hand to Azi's cheek in a mockery of kindness, then slid it downward to Azi's broken fingers. Crowley had to bodily stop himself from saying fuck-it-all and running in. He tried to push a little demonic influence onto both men's already simmering paranoia. 

“This family's mine now. You let your guard down. You got soft, Francis. This world ain't made for softies.” His head jerked up suddenly, and he glanced around. “Go see what's takin' Bobby so long,” he ordered Jerome, then turned back to Azi. He squeezed the broken fingers. “Where's the ledger, Francis?” He said, voice low. “It'll all stop hurting if you tell me.” 

Azi's eyes shimmered with tears in a heartbroken misery Crowley could see wasn't just physical. “ ' _For thou art with me,_ ' “ he whispered. 

Jerome finally slid off the desk, grumbling, “I'm not yours to order around, Billy,” but he walked out of the room. The moment he stepped past the doorway, Crowley sent him off too. Now it was down to one. He skulked around the room soft as he could in search of something and- good grief, a bag of golf clubs? Who just left their golf clubs sitting around? It seems a little fortuitous. Unless they'd planned to use them on... some humans needed no encouragement from Hell, Crowley thought and shivered. He pulled a driver and made his way swiftly back to the doorway, arms trembling, convinced he was about to make a mess of it all but willing to try for Azi. 

Azi was fruitlessly pleading with his brother, his uninjured fingers digging at the arm bracing his neck; his brother just laughed and twisted Azi's wrist, growling, “Ain't gonna kill ya. But when we bring you back for everybody to have a chat with, you're gonna wish I did! Where's the ledger. I'm only askin' one more time..”

“ ' _Thy rod-_ ' “ Azi said, his voice cracked. 

Acid churned in Crowley's stomach as if his corporation actually required such a thing.

He stepped into the doorway in full view. Azi's eyes widened in recognition. 

“ _'and thy staff-_ ' “Azi said, bolder, louder. 

William's back was to Crowley. He stepped in further, leading with his shoulder so his hands were hidden at his side, one holding the club flush to his leg. Crowley eyed the shelving lining the room and with a swift, upward snap with his free hand, ripped the anchor from the drywall so the shelving pulled away and clattered forward with a great crashing noise. 

William jumped. He released Azi to duck and turn and shout for the others. Crowley charged in, shrieking like an aged rock star who should've retired years ago, the golf club swung high above his head. The suave sort of rescue he'd imagined turned into a squawking, stumbling, ungraceful flail of arms and legs more reminiscent of a drunken goose than the cunning predator he intended. He brought the golf club down right upon William's skull while the man stood there like a startled deer, and he enhanced the thwack with a nudge into unconsciousness.

Crowley stood there, panting, the stupid club still clutched in his hand. He'd just gone and done a good turn again mere hours after meeting with two Dukes of Hell, and he didn't care at all what they might think. 

Azi stumbled forward on weakened legs and hugged Crowley tight, burying himself against Crowley's still jittery body, his forehead pressed just for a moment to Crowley's chest where Crowley's heart thumped as if he'd polished off twenty espressos. 

“ _'Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,'_ ” Azi whispered into Crowley's shirt, clinging with everything he had. “ _'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.'_ ” 

“You okay, Raphael? Azi?” Crowley could barely ask, disoriented now as the urgency crashed downward. He hesitantly returned the hug one-armed and found he was speaking into Azi's hair. 

“Oh thank God, oh Crowley,” he gasped, “Thank you, get me out of here.” 

Crowley remained still. He stared off into nothingness, both dazed and thoroughly flustered, and breathed in Azi's scent until he allowed his lips to come to rest against his scalp.

“Come on,” he finally murmured gently. He hoped Azi would wait to interrogate him until he'd cobbled together a plausible story. 

They moved quickly in strained silence out the building and back to the Bentley. Azi slid into the passenger seat and quietly peered into the surroundings through the window. Crowley found himself still clutching the golf club and shoved it into the back seat.

When he climbed in behind the steering wheel, Azi was staring numbly down at his hand. 

“We need to move, but do you want them wrapped first? Here.” He pretended to reach beneath his seat and miracled a small first-aid kit into existence, then reached for Azi's injured hand. 

Wordless, Azi allowed Crowley to bundle his purpling and swollen pinky and ring fingers. Crowley couldn't stop himself this time from knitting splintered bone, the shredded muscle and torn vessels, leaving just enough tissue unhealed so it would ache without arousing suspicion. He pushed a wave of soothing comfort, masking some of the pain. Azi's tense body gradually unspooled to it's usual level of anxiousness. He breathed out a relieved sigh. 

Crowley settled in and just drove, a hundred words at the tip of his tongue and not one of them the right ones. They were both silent until he crossed the river, where he passed a street food truck parked in an empty lot with a good-sized crowd gathered. He fervently wanted to pull over and just _stop_ and distract himself with something greasy. “Is this okay?” he asked in case Azi wasn't keen on being out in public. Azi just gave a tired smile and made a noise of agreement. Once they'd secured two paper plates of pad thai, they remained standing within the crowd just for that extra bit of protection. Crowley watched, silent and uncertain how he felt as Azi mouthed the words to a prayer before he took his first bite. He balanced the plate on his injured hand. They ate in silence for a period of time. 

“Stomach not too hurt from, you know?” Crowley eventually asked. You know, from your own brother, your family, beating you into a wall, he thought, still working through the shock of it all. 

Azi shook his head while chewing, and after he swallowed the enormous forkful he'd eaten, said, “He was pulling his punches. Only broke two fingers, or at least I thought he did, but they aren't throbbing as much.” He gestured at Crowley with his fork and while he didn't turn toward him, his eyes went sideways to meet Crowley's. “He was showing mercy. They weren't even useful fingers,” he explained in a horrifyingly blasé fashion which didn't answer Crowley At. All. Crowley lost his appetite. 

“This isn't too bad,” Azi observed once he'd devoured his entire meal. Crowley wondered when he'd last had a chance to eat and offered the rest of his own.

“Are you sure?” Azi asked, but he accepted the plate before waiting on an answer. 

“Azi,” Crowley began. He felt agitated and overwrought and so he circled behind him and paused on his right side. “You don't need to do these things on your own anymore. You've got me now,” he said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked in front of Azi, his eyes never stopping their wary scan of the crowd. It did just seem to be mostly teens and adults recently let out from the cinema, but Crowley knew you never could be sure. “And Newt, you've got him too,” he added, at first meant for humor, but he realized Azi _needed_ to know he had friends he could ask for help. “And you've got others,” he said, thinking of Azi's book club he spoke of and the humans at the cafe who seemed to miss him. “You only need ask.” 

“You're right,” Azi admitted. He paused and inhaled deep through his nose, possibly collecting his thoughts. Crowley didn't know what to do with himself, so he took the plates from Azi's hands. 

“I'm so used to keeping to myself. And holding my cards close to my chest, I believe the phrase goes.” Azi wiped his fingers and patted his lips with his napkin, then tilted his head at Crowley. “I don't think I realized what sort of hole I've dug for myself.” 

Crowley took that as an opening. He nudged Azi back toward the Bentley and discarded both their paper plates. Rather than climb in though, he leaned against the side and looked out over the people enjoying their evening. If only he and Azi could be as relaxed as they seemed to be, just goofing around and avidly discussing the film they'd just enjoyed, no vengeful family or spawns of Satan hanging over them. Azi moved slow, favoring an area of his stomach without complaint. It made Crowley feel helpless.

“Who were they, will you tell me?” Crowley asked softly, unwilling to push but curious. “Who were you? What are they looking for?”

Azi sighed heavy and leaned back against the Bentley with one hand folded over his injured one and both resting over his tender belly. “That, my dear boy, was my brother, William, or as he's better known, Billy 'la volpe' Frascone of the Frascone crime family, one of the few not brought in by the international investigation nearly a decade ago thanks to my far too slow turn-about.”

Crowley's jaw dropped for a moment. “You're telling me you were part of all that?” The Frascone case was enormous, on the news and in the papers long enough for even Crowley to take notice. The reverberations were felt along all sorts of unsavory enterprises Crowley kept his hand in.

“Yes,” Azi said, his chin dropping to his chest in shame. “I gave everything but one very important thing to Interpol. My father's ledger. You probably know my father was killed in prison not long after his sentence. That ledger was the only place he kept certain information.” He shook his head so his flattened curls puffed in all directions. “My brother would _kill_ to get his hands on it.”

“Why they tore up your flat,” Crowley guessed, surprised he was able to string together sentences while he still reeled from this information. He wondered when he'd finally stop being flummoxed by this human. 

Azi held his palm out as if offering an introductory handshake. “Raphael Azicis, formally known as Francis Frascone, youngest son of Joseph Frascone, the former head of the Frascone family's criminal enterprises. Hello.” His easy words were in drastic contract to the fear of rejection buried in his expression. Crowley could sense the uncertainty rolling off of him. 

Well. What the fuck. “Hey Francis,” Crowley said and took Azi's hand with a crooked, mildly-flirtatious half-smile, “What's a bad boy like you doing in a nice place like this?” 

“Oh good lord, don't you start,” Azi said, pulling his hand away. A fragile smile appeared for the first time that evening and his shoulders dropped some of the tension they were hanging onto; it was exactly what Crowley had wanted. 

“So where's the ledger?” Crowley asked, wondering how far he could push. 

Azi shook his head and turned to smooth his palm over the Bentley's frame. “Don't have it either. Once my father went to trial, I gave it to a consulting detective years ago when I first came to London and washed my hands of it. I'm _in it_ you see,” Azi defended. “And so are very important people politically or economically, people that indulged in _things_ my father's businesses offered.” He frowned now, his eyebrows drawn inward. “People in power that would weasel out of it all. Or the ledger would disappear, and they'd go unpunished.” 

“It goes like that sometimes,” Crowley said absently, his thoughts reaching back thousands of years. “Some off scott-free. Others with a punishment too harsh.” He looked out into the thinning crowd of people. “Or someone punished just for being...curious.”

“The forger I'd hoped to engage the services of is Jerome Bastille, but I mistakenly thought pushing for a lighter sentence for him would keep him on my side.”

“He was the phone call you were waiting for,” Crowley said with understanding. 

“My brother was right; I've become soft. I shan't make that mistake again,” Azi said, colder than Crowley had ever witnessed from him. “Might we head back?” he asked, much more sedately. 

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said softly. He opened the passenger door for Azi and went round to his side. When he settled in behind the wheel, Azi laid a hand on his elbow to halt him from starting the car. 

“I helped put dozens of people into life sentences in exchange for my own freedom, Anthony. My family, people I'd worked with for years. People I truly despised.” His head hung low as he wallowed in his sadness. “And the ledger's being used to take the rest down one at a time. My family will never stop. I'll never be able to stop running. It's not really freedom at all, I find.” He tilted his head just enough for Crowley to see a sliver of his watery blue eyes. “I'm not sorry I turned on them, but I'm so sorry for dragging you into this, dear boy, you and your staff.” He shook his head again and his washed-out curls flopped across head forehead. “It's absurd you found me, I thought...I'm such a fool!”

Crowley started the car with a quick gesture and pulled out of the parking lot. “I had..er...a hunch. And there must be something we can do,” he tried to console. And really, there _was_ something, many things Crowley could do. He could show Azi the demon he was, the things he could do for him, some which would land Azi in Hell, but if he was bound to get there anyway- he cut that rabbit trail of thought right off as a wave of nausea rose. He'd never felt so capable and helpless at the same time over a human, over anyone. Which reminded him.

“So you're real name is Francis?” he asked. 

“It was once,” Azi said. “My _real_ name, who I choose to be, is Raphael Azicis. The name on my confirmation papers, my communion, my christening, _my death certificate_ \- that's Francis Joseph Frascone. That man,” he paused here, his voice wavering for the first time, “That man is dead and buried, no matter how often they want to dig him up.”

Crowley thought about this as he made his way back to his flat, driving much slower than he normally would now Azi was opening up some. “Why 'Raphael' then?” Crowley asked, very curious now. Azi looked forward at the road. The passing streetlamps and lit-up signage threw his profile into colorful, evolving gradients of light and dark. 

“I'm not sure. I was thinking _healing,_. I caused so much hurt. I thought...well, heal. And I was raised Catholic, not that there's much love there for an openly gay man.” He shook his head and met Crowley's eyes. “Eventually it felt pretentious, and at the same time Ishmael, you know the tall one at the cafe-he's in my book club- he started calling me Azi a few years ago. It stuck.” 

“Anthony J. Crowley's not my original name,” Crowley said, then nearly choked on his own tongue because WHY had he said that? 

“Oh?” Azi was leaning toward him with some interest. 

“My other one's gone. It's been so long I don't even remember it,” he said, now panicking internally. Hey Azi, he imagined saying, I know you're a lapsed Catholic and all, would it be a good time to let you know I'm a Fallen Angel, and now you're in a Bentley with a goddamned demon? 

“Were you adopted?”

“Yes. YES. Adopted,” Crowley grabbed onto it like a lifeline. “My old family didn't want me, a shit foster family I still talk to had me, but then...” he thought of humans over the years he'd tried to forget, tried and failed to keep a degree of separation from. “I was unofficially adopted by a group of people.” 

“Found families,” Azi said wistfully. He settled back into the passenger seat and fiddled with his wrinkled clothes.

Crowley glanced over at Azi, who was so humanly complicated and growing so very important to him against his best judgment. He thought about other humans he'd taken a shine to in spite of knowing better. Then he recalled earlier today, Hastur and Ligur casually reading him into plans for Armageddon and the death and destruction of everything he'd grown to appreciate.

“Found families,” Crowley agreed, now meeting Azi's eyes for a beat before returning to the road. “World's full of them. Be a pity to see it all end,” he murmured. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note; There is a mildly graphic torture scene in this chapter 
> 
> Aziraphale is reciting psalm 23 while his brother is beating him up.  
> Ch title is from Plead for Me, stanza 2 line 2 by Emily Bronte


	3. Wilt Thou My Advocate, Be Dumb

Something cracked opened between them with Raphael Azicis' confession. They still kept to deliberate, alert movements between Crowley's flat and the Anthony and Son's office, but Azi seemed to have dropped his guard some. He began making himself at home in the kitchen (you'll have high cholesterol by the time you're forty! Azi scolded after their thirteenth day of take-out in a row), and he spent more time just settling near Crowley, relaxing in the armchair with a book or glass of wine, or on one memorial occasion, a movie (I can't believe you haven't seen _Harvey_ , Crowley accused, it's a classic!).

Azi would touch his hand to Crowley's shoulder and say in a devastatingly soft voice things like, “You don't need to hide your eyes with me, Crowley,” and “your lisp is nothing to be ashamed of over, Crowley.” He'd kneel unabashedly in the evenings, his bedroom door open, murmuring “Bless him, Lord, bless Crowley,” always so generous with, “Crowley...Crowley...Crowley, ”and so attentive and genuine that Crowley's delicate shields flaked away, leaving him exposed and dizzy with uncertainty. 

And Azi continued to have private conversations on the little flip-phone Crowley grew to hate, but the wary, searching look in his eyes had calmed.

Crowley knew intuitively the domesticity wouldn't last forever. He should have been ecstatic to push this human out of his life soon. Relieved.

Instead, Crowley fussed. He hovered. He picked up coffee and pastries for Azi. He pulled the pocket watch from his jacket to stare at before slipping it away. He became the one-man audience to _hours_ of practiced magic tricks to which he tolerated to varying degrees. He miracled up shelving for the growing collection of books strewn about his flat, and told Azi he'd been thinking about adding them anyway, but while you're staying here, why don't you go ahead and make use them? 

He woke in the morning with Azi's name on his lips and dreams he'd rather not interpret.

A sharp awareness hung over him that every day could be it, could mean the Frascones were done waiting or Azi would slip away in the night to spare everyone. Or Hell would pop up in the Bentley or an Angel would be sent, ready to smite, and wouldn't he love explaining to his human acquaintances why a being of brilliant light and burning cold had just manifested in the front office among the pile of invoices?

In fact, those human acquaintances were beginning to trouble him, and not just because hiding his demonic miracles from Newt, Mrs. Pulsifer, and especially Azi was becoming tricky.

“I need a few hours to work alone,” he said on a surprisingly sunny morning after several days of gray cloudcover. He tried not to visibly wince at the quickly disguised hurt look upon Azi's face. 

“Of course,” Azi said, politely, too politely one might say, and Crowley shut the door behind him. Crowley stalked around his office for several minutes, fiddling with thumbtacks on his corkboard and sharpening pencils with the electric sharpener rather than willing them so. 

No, those in his life weren't acquaintances. “Blessed humans. I've gone and made friends, haven't I?” he swore to a brittle and yellowed newspaper clipping of the Spice Girls stuck to the corkboard above his drafting table. Posh Spice shook her head at him in commiseration. 

He'd sworn off human friends. Repeatedly. It was painful with their brief lives, but he grew to be so lonely at times. And like an addict, here he was again. Maybe it wouldn't matter if everything was meant to become a pile of goo in less than a dozen years. 

“Too late now,” he said, grouchy, and he set to work to snap his fingers and manifest several landscape designs he'd imagined for clients. 

Several hours later, his ruffled nerves were soothed by satisfaction in his work, and he opened his office door. Mrs. Pulsifer, Newt, and Azi were gathered around Newt's desk. It was cleared off for once, other than a pack of cards and a silk scarf. Azi was wearing a ridiculous top hat; Crowley nearly about-faced back into his office.

“Oh Crowley, what fantastic timing!” Azi chirped from where he stood kitty-corner to Newt and his mum. “I managed to have the 'fountain of silk' trick work! Now come see the new one.” 

And there Crowley went, crossing the front office, the afternoon light angling through his recently replaced windowpane illuminating Azi's pale hair like a beacon that called to him. 

Mrs. Pulsifer looked enthralled. Newt wore an aware expression acknowledging the cheesiness, but was set to enjoy it in spite. 

“Alright then, let's see it,” Crowley said, giving in. Azi beamed at him and Crowley could only exhale his defeat. 

“My dear friends,” Azi said airily as he swung his arm wide and tugged on the cuff. “Nothing up this sleeve, nothing here!” he added, switching arms. He picked up a painted stick looped with electrical tape near the end. 

“With one flick of my wand,” he raised it, gripping with the three fingers not still splinted together from their injuries; the wand fumbled from his hand and clattered to the desk. “Er, one moment.” He raised a finger and retrieved the wand, but now the hat tumbled to the ground when he bent forward. “Oh dear, never mind that,” he said. He opened one palm flat. “Nothing in my hand,” he said before balling it into a fist. “But wait, what could this ever be?” His eyebrows raised, and he wiggled them while his grin border-lined on silly. Crowley resisted the urge to face-palm. 

He tapped his fist with the wand and opened it to a handful of fresh daisies.

Mrs. Pulsifer laughed and touched her fingers to her cheeks like a schoolgirl. “Incredible! Did you see that, Mr. Crowley? Raphael has such unique talents!” 

Newt grinned in a youthful way Crowley'd never seen from him before. “Very nice!” Newt said. “Was a shaky start, but you got there in the end!” 

Azi looked momentarily surprised his trick had worked. He bowed overdramatically and handed the daises over to Mrs. Pulsifer, then turned to look at Crowley, proud and affectionate. 

Crowley shook his head and didn't bother concealing his expression. “Yes, very unique.” 

“It's the oddest thing,” Azi said later that day as Crowley was handing him drawings to slide into protective tubing. 

“What?” Crowley said absently.

Azi paused while he carefully rolled a blueprint. “My trick earlier. I thought I'd prepped it with tea roses. And I thought they were silk.” 

“Oh really?” Crowley said and turned to hide his smile. “I guess you were mistaken.” 

“I suppose...” he said, sounding puzzled, but his overall countenance remained pleased. In response, Crowley only flared with satisfaction. 

Yes, Crowley could reluctantly accept he'd made friends.

~~

The following evening, Crowley returned home from a day of errands to find Azi murmuring kind, saccharine pleasantries to his collection of houseplants, and while he'd been letting Azi walk all over him in regards to everything else, this was not. on..

“You can't compliment them!” he cried, aghast. He dropped the armful of books Azi had requested from the library and made his way over to his plants, his arms flittering about in exasperation. The timer for his indoor lights had yet to click on, lending an otherworldly glow to Azi in the softened pinks and oranges of sunset filtering though the skylights. 

“Really,” Azi said, one eyebrow raised in doubt. He cocked his head and shot him a playful but haughty look that did _things_ to Crowley. “Show me, then.” 

Crowley sauntered up to a pothos ready to let loose, stared at it, and then froze. Azi was watching him with a bemused smile. Crowley slid his sunglasses down his nose just enough to glance at Azi over the top of them. “I can't just. Do it while you're staring at me!” he said, flustered and blushing enough to feel the heat high in his cheeks. 

Azi rubbed his palms together and widened his stance as if facing down a foe. “Alright then,” he said brightly, “Tell me the proper way. You're the expert!” His grin was just north of wicked. 

A quivering ball of warmth nestled in Crowley's chest. He hooked his thumbs into his jean pockets and drummed his fingertips upon the uppermost part of his thighs. “So. You need to be firm. Give it boundaries.” He nodded to himself, pleased with his explanation so far. “Make sure it knows the consequences, but you've gotta make it clear what's expected of them or it's not fair.” There, Crowley thought. That should do it. 

The smile on Azi's lips curled into something tender and indulgent, his blue eyes entirely too intense. Crowley had to turn away so he wouldn't blush further and then looked back again with a scowl on his face. “Go on,” he muttered.

Azi finally shifted his gaze to a plant sitting on the surface in front of him, much to Crowley's relief. “You..” he began and glanced over at Crowley with a question upon his face. 

“ _Maranta leuconeura_. The, uh, the prayer plant,” Crowley said, sheepish in a way he couldn't explain to Azi. 

“Yes, you there.” He pointed at the plant and gave it a stern look. “None of those wiggly stripes now.”

Crowley's shyness made way for amusement. “It's meant to have those stripes. It's a rare, variegated variety of prayer plant. Popular right now but difficult to get your hands on.”

“Ah. Well then. Those best be the most fetching stripes ever, nice and...creamy. Are we clear?” He looked over at Crowley for approval. Crowley tipped his head in encouragement.

“Or else. Or else,” Azi began in warning, then glanced back at him again for help. 

Crowley could handle this. “It's the garbage disposal for you,” he growled.

“Crowley!” Azi scolded, and while he might have been aiming for disapproval, his expression held an electric edge of fascinated delight Crowley found hard to look away from. 

“They know,” he said, then glared at a flawless schefflera. He stroked his fingers slow and intent over a shiny and verdant leaf. “Don't you?” 

“I'll just leave you to it, then, shall I?” Azi said with the barest catch in his voice as he left the room, head held high and cheeks gone pink. 

If only Crowley could gather these moments and compress them down into hard mineral for collection in jars like glittering cut gemstones or sea glass, something he could hold to the sun and bathe within the tinted radiance they cast when it was all over. And it would be over, in some way. Azi would move on, or succumb to his mortality eventually or the world would end in a great war between Heaven and Earth. Crowley knew better than to grow too attached to humans. Yet every few centuries, one of them wormed in beneath his corporation and carved a chunk of his true self away. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, how much of Crowley had become one with Earth over six millennia as their mortal bodies failed? 

It was with this great weight upon Crowley's mind that they pulled up in front of a conveniently open spot near Anthony and Sons one morning. Azi never seemed to question why there was always a spot in this portion of Mayfair meant more for walking or biking. 

When he unfolded himself from the Bentley, his hair stood on end and all his senses pricked into sharpness. Angel. There was an Angel here, somewhere. At the same moment, his mobile vibrated in his pocket. 

“Anything wrong?” Azi asked as he paused in his monologue over the best curry spices. 

“Go on in,” Crowley said. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “I think I have to meet someone.” He flicked his eyes down to his text messages--

_LOUBOUTIN, MOUNT ST NOW_

\-- and back to Azi, who had his hands folded atop the Bentley's roof and was watching with a puzzled expression. 

“You hadn't mentioned a meeting?” Azi asked in curiosity. 

Crowley pursed his lips this time so he wouldn't bite at them. “Didn't. It's a needy client,” he decided on. He forced a smile. “It'll be quick. Here,” he miracled a tenner into his palm and passed it over the roof to Azi. “Send Newt for whatever you want and have him get me a dark-roast with three shots of espresso.” 

Their fingers brushed as their hands met above the Bentley. When he caught Azi's eyes, he saw the banked suspicion. Damn it. Damn Angels. “Really, it's fine. I'll be back in a flash.”

“If you say so,” he said as he turned and headed toward the door to the Anthony and Son's suite. His steps were slow and Crowley knew, he just _knew_ Azi saw though him, whatever he might think he was seeing. 

Crowley headed toward Mount, several streets over from his own, and wished he hadn't chosen such tight trousers so he could stuff his entire hand into his pockets to disguise their shaking. He wove his way between self-indulgent shoppers, stepped around a group that'd stopped to take a selfie, and then saw _them_. 

In front of _Christian Louboutin_ , head tilted downward at the most recent iphone clutched in their hand, was the Archangel Michael. Crowley swallowed down his agitation and leisurely walked up as if he chatted with a goddamned Archangel everyday. 

“Per our Arrangement, I expect you have some explanation for the flurry of activity on Hell's part of recent?” Michael said without pleasantries.

“Maybe,” Crowley hedged. “Depends on what sort of intel you have for me.” Crowley kept his back to the street, fairly confident Michael had come alone and there wouldn't be a surprise attack from another Angel. He didn't trust Michael, but the two of them had built up a very thin boundary over the centuries neither one of them crossed.

Michael glared at him with obvious disdain.

Crowley cocked his head nearly sideways beneath that glower and made a face as if someone had shoved a rotting carcass beneath his nose. “I offered up first at our last meeting,” he said. He'd met with the Archangel under the barest veneer of civility since the Christ child had walked the Earth. It was barely cordial, never friendly. Their Arrangement was a simple exchange of information direct from Heaven and Hell on neutral ground, two opposing agents keeping an eternal conflict at a standstill. Though the last few decades, Crowley thought 'neutral ground' seemed to act as a dubiously convenient excuse for Michael to update their wardrobe. 

“If I must go first, Demon,” they said, expression cold. “We are preparing for war. In little over ten rotations of the Earth around the sun.” 

Crowley swore. “Tracks with what I've got,” he reasoned. 

“And that is.” Michael slid their mobile into their suit pocket to give Crowley their full attention. Crowley preferred to inspect the display of stiletto pumps behind their head rather than look an Archangel in the eye even with his shades.

“Antichrist will be born in less than a year.”

“We intend to eliminate the humans prior to our battle upon Har-Megiddo. It will be more...humane, and protect them from the influences of the Antichrist.” 

“Gosh, that's nice of your side,” Crowley bit out. 

“It is a _kindness_.” Michael snapped. “Where will the Antichirst be placed,” they asked, nearly an order. 

“I'm not telling you that,” Crowley said wryly. “How about you share your exact plans. And when's your next agent due to slit my throat?” 

“I think we're finished here.” With that, Michael began to leave. 

“Hold on,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. Michael paused silently in their retreat, but Crowley'd known them long enough to sense their curiosity. 

“Does your lot have any involvement in organized crime around here, thwarting it and what-not?”

“At times,” they conceded. 

His tongue slipped out in anxiousness, thankfully still people-shaped, but he barely felt in control. “What. Uh. What's the outlook for salvation for those sort?” he asked.

Michael actually turned back and faced him, their head cocked in interest. “Demon Crowley, you know more than most how _unevenly_ She handles redemption,” they said with a surprising amount of dubiousness for an Archangel. She observed him for an unusual moment before spinning to walk into the shop without looking back. 

“Yeah, got me there,” he said well under his breath. 

Crowley ducked his head down and strode back toward his landscape office, willing the morning crowd of shoppers out of his path forcefully. Heaven was a disappointment, as always. Any spark of hope he might have held that the Angels or God Herself might find a way to preserve humankind was snuffed out. If he wanted to do something about it, he'd be on his own. 

He quickly made his way and walked past Mrs. Pulsifer's desk without stopping for greetings or messages. His chair was already pushed out in his personal office so he slumped into it and kicked his boots up onto the desk, knocking over a wobbly pile of something. His sigh might have been a little on the melodramatic side because Azi wandered in with a paper cup of coffee in hand and closed the door behind him. 

“Gimmie,” Crowley said in a sort of grunt. He dropped his feet back to the floor and reached out, greedy. 

“Meeting not go well?” Azi asked as he handed over the coffee. He was in twill trousers today, something beige, and a plain, tan vest over a crisp white shirt. Even his bow-tie was the color of dust, unnoticed beneath his pale skin and even paler fluff of curls. He should have faded into the background, this quirky little middle-aged human with his dark past, but he was the brightest thing in Crowley's world right now.

After several large gulps of dark roast Crowley probably should have pretended burnt his tongue, he folded his elbows onto his desk and dropped his chin onto them. “Somebody I contract with. They're a complete wanker. I've been meeting with them for an eternity now though, so.” He let it go and used his wrist to shove his sunglasses upward so he could rub his eyes into his sleeve.

“Crowley,” Azi said, sounding so very careful that Crowley peeked up over his arm. “I'd call myself more than a mere acquaintance you're helping out by now, correct?”

“Of course. We're friends,” Crowley said into his shirtsleeves.

Azi smiled so joyfully it tugged at the corners of his eyes. “We are,” he agreed. “You know who I am. I...trust you with it.” 

“Thank you,” Crowley said and then pressed his lips into an unseen thin smile because, look, he could be a polite demon. 

“You know if you _also_ need assistance with any...problems,” he paused here after emphasizing the last word, “you could come to me, right?” Crowley lifted his head now, wary. “It's just business, Azi,” he clarified because. It was starting to look like...

Azi placed his palms flat on a tiny patch of open desk. “Yes, just business,” he echoed, then he looked at Crowley keenly, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. “And I have quite a long history with _business_ , my dear boy. And I think we're close enough now that I hope you understand if you need my particular brand of _help_ with your business, you only need ask.” His stare was piercing now, like little chips of sky-blue ice. This was not the heartbroken brother nor the fumbling but earnest magician before him. 

“I'll keep it in mind?” Crowley said, because his mind had already skittered on a sidequest of it's own, and it had determined Raphael Azicis aka Francis Frascone thought Crowley was in trouble with another faction of the mob or some sort of gang or _something_ not above the board, and _how could Azi be so wrong and yet so very right all at the same time,_ he wondered. 

“That's all hunky-dory, then.” Azi's smile was pleasant, but even more, he appeared extremely satisfied with Crowley's answer. “Because I might be keeping low, and I might've put it all behind me for a softer life,” he said, his more affable expression back on his face. Then Azi snatched two of Crowley's sharpened pencils right from the container so quickly Crowley would've missed it were he an actual human.

Crowley watched with wide eyes as Azi spun and whipped them with deadly accuracy so they hit with one _THUNK_ after the other right smack into each of the eyes of a newspaper clipped photo of the Prime Minister Crowley'd stuck to his corkboard on a lark. “I'm not so long out of practice to not lend a hand if someone is threatening a person I care about,” Azi finished and glanced back at Crowley before walking toward the door. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said and dropped his face back into his arms. 

~~

The days began blending into one another with no sign of Azi's family, and while they relaxed with bottle of something one evening, (Crowley more than Azi, in fact Crowley'd miracled this particular bottle full twice this evening alone) he asked, “Have they given up on you?” He was long practiced at drinking in human quantities for show. He knew he'd had a bit much tonight though, enhancing his pour by miracle as well. He thought perhaps he might be crowding Azi on the sofa, curled onto the cushion so the side of his foot, hip and upper arm pressed against him. 

Azi hadn't complained. He turned a page in the book he held in the crook of one arm. “Hmmmm?” 

“Do you think they gave up for now,” Crowley repeated. He lolled his head along the back of the sofa and held his wine far enough away that he reflected comically in the glass. He made a face and watched his distorted reflection mirror it; the yellow of his bare eyes appeared widely vulnerable and luminous while the black slashes of his pupils entirely too long and thin. 

“Oh my dear, no. They're burning me out with boredom. It's insidious.”

“But they know you're ssstill in the area.” He bit his tongue between his teeth to punish it for extending his sibilants. 

“Yes, but I'm willing to bet they've known for a while. Something's come to head. And even then, it was my own fault for seeking out papers from Jerome.”

“Good thing you're done with that,” Crowley said. Azi said nothing very loudly. “Right?” Crowley repeated. He turned from his reflection to stare at Azi's profile. Azi very pointedly did not look over at Crowley. 

“Aaaaaaggh,” was all Crowley could come up with. He'd traveled too far down the road of drunkenness to worry at it now. 

“Why don't you really go by Raph? Raph-a-el. Knew a guy named Raphael long, long time ago.”

“Truth?” Azi said with some exasperation, “One too many Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle jokes.” 

Crowley was quiet for some time, then said, “When did your hair go white?”

“I was born this way.”

“How are you keeping your french tips maintained that perfect when I know you haven't been to the nail salon in weeks?”

“People do their own nails, Crowley!” Azi huffed out and aggressively turned to the next page. “I have a kit in the duffel you picked up for me from my flat.” 

Crowley looked at his own chewed nails, some nibbled down to the quick. Maybe he'd ask Azi to do his. What shade would he want? Black seemed too cliché. Maybe a luxurious red. Unless that would clash with his aesthetic. He studied the color of his remaining wine, swirling it in the glass. He could picture a deep violet, perhaps?

“What about a deep violet,” he said apropos to nothing. 

Azi closed his book over his thumb with a sigh. “What are you...what about a deep violet?”

“My nails.” He miracled them slightly less ragged and splayed his hand over the cover of Azi's book. “Could I carry it off?”

“As if you don't know you're the type that could carry off anything,” Azi said, resigned to this line of conversation. “You are chatty with questions this evening, aren't you.” 

“'M great with questions,” Crowley said, feeling drowsy. “ Got into a lotta trouble over questions. I'm full of questionsss.”

“You're full of something,” Azi sniped. 

Crowley tipped his head to rest against Azi's shoulder, and when Azi seemed fine with that, he reopened Azi's book to where his thumb had kept the page. “Read to me,” he asked. If he'd been sober, he might've been entirely too frazzled by his audacity, but with the low buzz of alcohol in his veins, he just felt comfortable. 

“I might as well, if only to keep you quiet.” Azi sighed, sounding too dramatically put-upon for it to ring true. “ _'But you comfort me, Gimli, I'm glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe. I wish there were more of your kin among us. But even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood'..._ ” 

Somewhere along the way Crowley must have drifted off, because he woke in early morning, tucked into blankets on the sofa. Nearby sat a glass of water and bottle of painkillers he would've needed if he were human and couldn't miracle away a hangover. He stared at the bottle. Then he rolled to his back to stare at the ceiling, determined not think on how completely and utterly fucked he was.

~~

“Azi just took a call on his mobile.” It was a Thursday evening, nearly time to lock-up. Newt was always quiet, always measured in his speech, and he did so now, with a look at Crowley that meant he should pay attention. “I don't know what he's caught up in, what you might be,” Newt paused and smiled just the slightest, “um, helping him with. I know you hate when we point out when you've done something halfway decent.” 

“Shut it, Pulsifer,” Crowley said by rote.

Newt's smile grew a bit more, bordering on pleased. “In any case, he took the call and then slipped out the front. I know we're technically closed up, and mum and I were getting ready to head out. But I thought you might want to keep an eye on him?” he suggested. 

“Shit,” Crowley hissed. “Shit, shit, shit.” He scrambled to his feet and swept past Newt, calling back over his shoulder, “Yeah, I'll go after him. Lock up when you leave.” 

And there it was. Raphael Azicis was sneaking off alone, compromising his safety again after weeks of nearly always being within reach. Crowley seethed and his stomach hurt more than he wanted to admit, but only a sliver of it was aimed at Azi personally. The rest was at this...this _situation_ Crowley'd created prying himself open to human friendship. He'd lost sight of things. He was a demon!

He should not give a fuck why this human failed to listen to all reason. Crowley should have tempted Azi into giving his soul for a permanent solution against his family's criminal enterprise. An exchange so Hell could have Azi and in the meantime, Azi could go on with his bumbling little existence, hiding in coffee shops and tucking away books and doing asinine card tricks to cheer people up until the Apocalypse wiped him out. 

Crowley continued to slither in the evening shadows, keen senses keeping track of Azi's movements as he followed him like he was dragged by magnet. 

And, damn it all. The thought of tempting Azi that way sickened him. He didn't want him tortured in Hell. He wanted him here, at his side, scrunching his nose over the tartness of a cranberry scone and a brilliant smile on his stupid face and his stupid shiny hair puffing and seducing Crowley's fingertips and his ridiculous sartorial choices and his goofy waddling little walk and the near orgasmic sigh he'd moan once he'd sipped at his cocoa...and...and...and.

OH. _OH._ Crowley turned so he backed up to a brick wall he was passing. “Oh no,” he spit. “No no no no no.” Holy fucking Christ on a pogo stick. This was not just the affection of friendship. He was in love with Raphael Azicis. 

A human. Mortal.

He thought of the gold-plated timepiece he'd picked up on a whim for Azi and realized it was no whim at all. He wanted to give him things, show him things, he wanted to take him apart with eager fingers and a willing tongue, to watch Azi shake loose from the reserved way he held himself. A demon's mind and love were meant to be incompatible but clearly his Fallen brain hardware was running the wrong fucking operating system.

And Azi was walking into danger again. Probably. Maybe. 

Crowley scurried after him, his emotions a conflicting mass of anger, adoration, fear. He ignored it all since anxiety always rallied in the end. He saw Azi stepping into an alley and picked up his pace. Within seconds, he caught up and shoved Azi against a building in a fit of frustration, pushing him flush to the flaking painted surface. 

“Azi,” Crowley hissed, mere centimeters from Azi shocked face, and then he registered the cold press of steel against the side of his neck. 

Azi panted like a startled rabbit, blue eyes wide and one arm pressed back against the wall. The other held a switchblade surprisingly steady against Crowley's neck. “Crowley!” Azi chided, breathless. “You scared me.” He slowly dropped the hand holding the blade but made no other effort to move. 

“What are you thinking!” Crowley said in an angry whisper. Okay, perhaps he was more upset than just a sliver. In fact, he was all over the place right now and it urged him closer just to feel Azi's steady presence against his own. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Azi was mumbling, but his eyes were still laser sharp and were now darting around Crowley's face. 

“I promised you could trust me,” he said somewhat desperately. His fingers were tight in Azi's coat; he curled them further. “Why won't you let me help you?”

“You,” Azi said softly, his voice cracking. “You're too familiar with this kind of life, Crowley. No need to tell me your secrets,” he added when Crowley opened his mouth to fumble out an explanation. 

“I told you I was used to trouble,” he said instead, ignoring the drumbeat of _tell him you're a demon, tell him you're a demon_ thumping with his pulse. 

They both went silent save for the distant sounds of every day pedestrians and traffic. The alley was dark and reeked of refuse from food establishments and years of grime, though Crowley hardly gave it notice. 

Azi's breath puffed at Crowley's lips, warm and still rapid, his scent in Crowley's nose, his hand, now devoid of the switchblade was spread on Crowley's hip. Crowley tried his best and still couldn't disguise a revealing whimper. “And look how well you're doing now,” Azi said soft as cotton. “I won't allow you to get dragged back into anything you rose above because of me.”

Crowley shut his eyes, though he knew Azi wouldn't see that behind his sunglasses. How could he explain Heaven, the Angels? (One was due to show up any day, would Azi think it was some human from his fictitious past sent to kill him?) “If you need to go, to hide, then go. I won't stop you. But I have _experience._ I want to help you.” 

“Crowley,” Azi said as if he'd dragged the syllables through the thickest of briars to get them past his lips. “Why must you be so...so...” Azi's words drifted off; he was brazenly staring at Crowley's lips. His body shuddered and went lax against the wall. Crowley melted against him.

Crowley wasn't sure if he was bewildered or simply dumbstruck by his conflicting emotions. “Let me help,” he whispered. “Please.” He had no clue what the hell he was saying. He reopened his eyes to focus on the gorgeous blue of Azi's own. Azi's pupils were dilated, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips, and oh. Crowley was going to do something he really shouldn't, but he was a demon, he _should be_ doing things he really shouldn't...

There were footsteps echoing in the alley suddenly, and Crowley jerked his head. 

“Don't stop on my account,” the woman said, leering. Her face was lit from beneath by the glow of her mobile, throwing eerie shadows on the surroundings. “Buzz off,” Crowley snapped, every part of him a jittery mess. 

The woman's smile was overtly cloying.”No, alley's public space. Either of you Raphael?” 

Crowley turned his head back to Azi. The rest of him had not budged. They stared at each other; Azi's face remained unreadable.

“No,” Azi said. He nudged Crowley slightly and Crowley took the hint to step back. Azi kept his eyes locked on Crowley, but Crowley couldn't parse his expression. “No Raphael here.” 

~~

The return to _Anthony and Sons_ was fraught with a sharpened silence. 

The drive back to Crowley's building simmered with tension so thick it clotted Crowley's throat. 

He'd tied himself into a tangled knot of confusion by the time they stepped away from the lift and through his door. 

Once they were in, (safe, with four demonically enhanced walls surrounding them) Azi went quietly to the armchair. His back was stick-straight, and his fingers twisted in his lap so tightly Crowley was worried he might re-injure them. 

“Drink?” Crowley said because he didn't know what the fuck else to say and everything tripping over his tongue belonged right in the waste bin. 

“Sit down, Anthony.” 

Crowley sat. He perched on the arm of the sofa, feet on the floor, with both legs reined in tight and his arms folded across his chest. The last time he'd taken up so little space he was coiled as a snake. In contrast, his emotions spread themselves wide like a two-bit tart. 

“Keep this.” Azi handed the flip-phone to Crowley, who took it with some confusion. “Keep me from the temptation.”

A nervous snort escaped Crowley and he ground out, “Yeah, 's me, a rockstar at helping others resist temptation.”

“I'm not going to look for an escape any longer. I'm done. My brother, my cousin. They think I'm going to try and keep running.” Azi was looking toward Crowley. His expression appeared very serious. “I'm nearly 45, I cannot keep this up.”

After considering and tossing out a hundred words, Crowley finally settled on, “Er.” 

“If you're amenable to me staying-”

“Always,” Crowley cut him off, embarrassing himself with his brusqueness. “I mean.” His lips were irritatingly dry. “As long as you need, Azi.”

“Thank you. Might I see your eyes?” Azi asked gently. His legs were crossed now and his hands rested in an overly dignified fashion at his knee. 

He'd asked Crowley this before, and while Crowley'd had humans and occasionally Angels develop uncomfortable, obsessive kinks over his eyes at times, this didn't feel like one of those moments. He pushed his sunglasses so they settled just above his forehead. A lock of hair flopped forward and tickled his nose. He felt laid bare and flushed some under Azi's attentive gaze. 

Azi leaned forward toward him and met his eyes steadily. “Anthony Crowley,” he said, voice low and calm, “You have my word I will no longer keep things from you. Or lie.” His own eyes were wide-open and unmasked in their own way, benign but not weak, never weak, Crowley thought. 

“I trust you,” he said, meaning it more than ever. 

“Thank you for believing me. I know I don't deserve it.” Azi said and looked down at a sleeve of his wrinkled button-up shirt prior to standing from the chair. “I think I may take advantage of your bath after all with this foolishness today on my part. I'd wager it's late.” He glanced down at his wrist and blinked back at Crowley. “Whoopsie! I keep looking for my mother's watch. I got used to using the little clock on that mobile to check the time.” His despondent smile revealed how practiced he was at accepting disappointment. It tugged at Crowley, insistent, a joint that needed popping. 

Wait. 

Crowley could help this. He nearly unbalanced from his spot on the sofa arm in his haste. “I have something for you. I forgot,” he lied. (No, he thought about it every moment he watched in apprehension as Azi stared out into the distance, restless, like a sparrow ready to dart away at any rustle of noise or encroaching shadow.)

Azi's eyebrows arched up with interest while Crowley patted down the breast pocket of the vest he wore and pulled the pocket watch from where it'd grown slightly warm, near his heart, from the very meager heat of a body that sometimes reflected far too reptilian traits. He slid from the sofa and drew close. Azi peered up at him with such trust it ached inside. 

“I want you to have this.” He dangled it by by the Albert. “I happened to see this browsing in a secondhand shop. Thought you could use it.”

Azi held his hand out flat and allowed the timepiece to rest against his palm. “Crowley! This is gorgeous. Oh, look. It's embossed with an apple tree,” Azi observed, and Crowley preened somewhat; that's why he'd chosen this particular selection from the offerings. Crowley released the Albert chain so it draped along Azi's outspread fingers. 

“It's yours,” Crowley said quietly. It was like he was watching himself from afar as he reached for Azi's hand and folded his friend's fingers over the pocket watch housing. “Full hunter, mother of pearl face. Just.” He tugged on Azi's waistcoat right near the bottom hemming. “No way I could pull this off. It fits your style.”

“I-”

“Don't say it,” he grumbled. He couldn't settle and shifted his weight from leg to leg, knocking his knee against Azi's in the process. He left his hand on the waistcoat and shoved the fingers of his unoccupied hand into his pocket so it wouldn't grow any ideas. 

“You don't take compliments nor gratitude well, do you, my dear boy?” Azi's eyes flicked between the pocket watch in his palm and Crowley's face. Crowley had never wished so hard for the safety of his sunglasses. 

“No need for that rubbish,” he said. He realized too late his voice had gone low and intimate, undermining his intended rebuke. “It's just a thing to tell time.” Crowley swayed closer. He could no longer meet Azi's eyes, but couldn't find something to settle his gaze on. 

Azi fiddled with the closure and opened the housing. “Oh Crowley, look, it's engraved within the case, dated back to 1902.”

Crowley had only glanced inside once or twice. “Sorry, didn't notice it.” 

“ _'To the devil upon my shoulder,'_ ” Azi read aloud with some humor.

“HA!” Crowley blurted, absurdly loud. He reached for Azi's hand and braced it to read the engraving upside-down. Yup. There it was. Wasn't that just blessedly ironic. 

“Aw, Crowley,” Azi cooed and the bastard went as far as to bat his eyelashes. “I suppose I'm the devil on your shoulder?” he said with humor. He remained close for a beat and then stroked Crowley right beneath the chin before turning toward the bath. 

“I'm starting to wonder,” Crowley mumbled, breathless and solidly perplexed over what his life had become. 

**Author's Note:**

> chapter titles pulled from "Plead For Me" by Emily Bronte
> 
> The plan is to update every friday for a total of 5 chapters. Y'all know how plans go.


End file.
